


Fearfully and Wonderfully

by semperama



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, From Sex to Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Guilt, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Inexperience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15405882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/pseuds/semperama
Summary: Zach is pushing 30, his career is at a standstill, and his sex life is--and has always been--nearly nonexistent. He doesn't have much to be happy about, until he is welcomed into a group of actors who call themselves the Grimy Corp.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuedeScripture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/gifts).



> This idea was given to me in a prompt from the lovely @suedescripture, who said "I was thinking today about how Zach said he never really had much sex until after college, and had a hankering for inexperienced!Zach. Maybe Grimy!era? How inexperienced is up in the air too, I just feel like maybe once he got to LA and had a little freedom maybe he went a little nuts lol (gee, who with?)".
> 
> She sent me this prompt a loooooong time ago, and has been so patient with me, which I am grateful for, because I have really wanted to write this story and do it justice. It has become perhaps a bit more serious and more involved than the prompt would suggest, but I hope it satisfies! I've been working on it for what feels like forever, and I started over at least three times, but finally it's here. Most of it, anyway. I have five chapters written and am planning on a one-chapter-a-week posting schedule, so I should have enough headstart to finish it in a timely manner. Thank to everyone who expressed interested and reblogged snippets along the way. It helped keep me going! <3
> 
> Explicit rating is for future chapters.

Zach paces back and forth in front of the apartment building, wishing he had been a little more fashionably late. He has the code for the gate, and Patrick told him he could go right up and someone would let him in, but, pathetic as it is, he doesn’t want to go alone. The recurring gauntlet of auditions should by now have cured him of any fear of walking into a room full of strangers, but this is different. This is a group of guys who are his peers, guys he wants to befriend, and all his life he has been little more than chum in the water in situations like these. They might be nice, but they might also smell his fear and rip him to shreds. And in this town, truly nice people are few and far between, so the latter option seems much more likely.

Patrick seems like one of the good ones though, so that’s a hopeful sign. Zach met him at a theater festival about a month back, where they were cast in the same play. They gravitated toward each other pretty much from the start, realizing they were of a similar mind and at similar places in their careers—which was to say, their careers weren’t going much of anywhere at all. One night, after rehearsals were over for the day, they were hanging out in the courtyard outside the dormitories where all the actors were staying, passing a cigarette back and forth because they were too cheap to light a second one, talking about what plans they had next and bitching about life. Patrick mentioned that he and a few friends had come together in an informal acting support group, and he asked Zach if he wanted to join them. Zach practically fell over himself in his rush to agree.

Now, he wonders if it was such a good idea after all. He and Patrick bonded over the fast pace of putting on a play at a festival, and over dissatisfaction with their careers, but it isn’t every day that Zach clicks with someone so easily. This group only has four guys in it, so if Zach doesn’t get along with everyone, it’ll be painful, awkward. Patrick insists that everyone’s cool, but what does that mean? Cool for Patrick doesn’t mean cool for Zach. Patrick is young, handsome, personable. Zach is lanky, awkward, deeply unsure of himself—by all measures much harder to like. There’s a non-zero chance that the night will end in humiliation.

He actually gets his phone out of his pocket with the intent of telling Patrick he’s changed his mind, but before he has a chance to type out a message, Patrick himself appears, half-jogging toward Zach once he spots him from the corner. “Hey,” he says once he reaches Zach’s side, a little out of breath. “Sorry I’m late. Why didn’t you go up?”

“I, uh.” Zach should say something. He should back out now. But it’s harder to do to Patrick’s face, knowing he’ll probably find himself on the receiving end of a reasonable argument he can’t say no to. “I just thought it’d be weird if I showed up the first time without you.”

“Nah, man.” Patrick claps him on the shoulder, then steps around him to punch in the gate code. If he notices Zach’s clear discomfort, he’s ignoring it. “They’re expecting you. They would have welcomed you with open arms.”

Zach finds that very hard to believe, but he follows Patrick through the gate and into the building anyway. It’s too late to turn back now. One flight of stairs, one short hallway, and the door to the apartment appears in front of them, marred with scuff marks and chips in the off-white paint. This isn’t a classy building, but it shouldn’t have to be. Not for their purposes. Still, Zach’s discomfort increases.

As he opens the door, Patrick turns around and puts his finger to his lips. “It’s monologue day,” he whispers, so quiet Zach only barely makes out the words. “Looks like it’s Chris’s turn.” Zach recognizes it, then—the expectant hush in the room. Any actor would recognize it. It’s the silent, electric hum that happens before a scene begins. 

A man—Chris, presumably—is standing in the light of a single floor lamp. Blackout curtains have been drawn across the one window at the far end of the room. Two more men are sitting on a sagging couch facing him, and they don’t even glance over when Zach and Patrick move closer—nor do they make any effort to clear off the space next to them, which is littered with scripts and books and sheets of paper. Zach opts for leaning against the wall. Patrick comes to a stop beside him. 

Chris begins: “You know why I had no address for three months?”

Zach knows it at once, could recite it by heart. _Death of a Salesman_. Biff’s fight with Willy. It’s a good choice, a dramatic choice. Needs some serious acting chops not to veer into melodrama.

“I stole a suit in Kansas City and I was jailed. I stole myself out of every good job since high school.”

The guy certainly looks the part, Zach thinks. Clean cut, thin but fit, dark blond hair and eyes blue enough that Zach can see their color even in the low light. He could have been captain of the football team in high school—although, based on stereotype alone, it seems unlikely that he’d be standing on a stage marked off with duct tape in the middle of a run-down apartment reciting _Death of a Salesman_ if that was the case. Still, he’s…well, he has a face that should make it easy to get work in this town. 

And if the face doesn’t do it, fuck if his acting chops won’t do the trick. Soon Zach can’t even _think_ about how pretty Chris is, because he’s too captivated by his performance. Between high school and college and community theater, Zach must have seen this scene acted out at least thirty different times, by thirty different people, but he’s never seen it like this, never gotten lost in it like this. Chris starts out defiant, chin jutted into the air. When he talks about looking at the sky and wanting a place to sit and smoke, his voice tinges with longing and regret. And by the time he gets to, “I’m one dollar an hour, Willy!” he’s yelling, red-faced with tears shining in his eyes and hands trembling as they slice through the air. His presence fills the whole room. Zach has a lump in his throat, and he realizes he’s covering his mouth with his hand.

“Pop, I’m nothing! I’m _nothing_ , Pop!”

Zach’s hand falls to his chest where his fingers knead anxiously at his sternum. Next to him, Patrick makes a small, awed sound, and Zach has to choke down the urge to snap at him to hush, annoyed at being pulled out of the scene even for a moment.

“Will you let me go, for Christ’s sake?” Chris is crying in earnest now, his voice broken with half-swallowed sobs. “Will you take that phony dream and burn it before something happens?”

A hush descends, and Zach wills everyone not to move, not to _breathe_ lest they shatter the moment. He wants to let this stretch out as long as he can, so they all have the time to appreciate what they just witnessed. Because once they turn on the lights and pull back the curtains, the real world is going to rush in and wash all the magic away. Zach never wants to move, wants to stand there forever and watch Chris stand there, haloed in lamplight, his chest heaving from all he put into that scene.

“Jesus, Chris.” It’s one of the men from the couch who says it—and like some switch has been flipped, Chris’s shoulders slump and his mouth splits into a wide grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. 

“That wasn’t bad, right?” Chris asks, swiping at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand as he walks to the opposite wall to slap at a light switch. A bank of lights comes on in the kitchenette near the door.

“Not bad?” Patrick says incredulously. “Give me a break. I’m not going to follow that, by the way.”

“I say no one should follow it,” says the other guy on the couch. Then he stands up and raises a hand to Zach in greeting. “Zach, right? I’m Babar.”

Zach nods and forces a smile, then shifts his gaze to the last guy who, by process of elimination, must be Reid. “Welcome, Zach,” Reid says, grinning. “Please don’t be scared off by that stunning performance. Chris isn’t normally that intimidatingly good.”

“Hey!” Chris protests. He’s started back across the room to where Zach and Patrick are standing, and suddenly Zach has the urge to run. 

“Reid’s just being honest,” Patrick says, pushing off the wall to clap Chris on the shoulder when he comes to a stop in front of them. “Do we need to put on your Princess movie to prove it?”

Chris winces. “Please, no. Also, let’s see _you_ maintain a phony English accent for a whole movie, huh?” Before Patrick can respond, Chris turns his attention on Zach and holds out his hand. “Hey! Welcome! I’m Chris.”

Zach wishes he could fold himself up accordion-style or phase through the wall. His face must showing every bit of the awe he feels. “Uh, hi,” he stammers. He realizes belatedly that his own eyes are wet. How _mortifying_. Maybe it would be best if he dropped dead on the spot, instead of just disappearing. And as if the visible tears aren’t bad enough, he makes the mistake of swiping hastily at his eyes right before he is forced to extend the same hand to shake Chris’s. Great. Smooth. Good job, Zach. “That was…I mean, you were…” 

“Thanks, man,” Chris says, saving him from having to finish that sentence. If he notices how damp Zach’s hand is—with tears and nervous sweat—it doesn’t show on his face. “Seriously though, these guys are right. That was just a fluke. Sometimes the stars align, you know?” He waves his free hand toward the ceiling, as if they could all see the stars shining down at them. His other hand is still clutching Zach’s, his grip firm, his hand warm and dry and…distressingly large. 

“Right. Stars,” Zach says eloquently. “I mean, yeah. I guess.”

Chris arches an eyebrow at him and finally releases his hand, and Zach shoves it in his pocket before he can do something stupid like wipe it off on his shirt or punch himself in the face.

“Okay,” Babar breaks in before Chris has a chance to say anything else or Zach has a chance to embarrass himself further. “I say we order a pizza or something. I’m starving.”

Chris brightens and starts digging in his pocket. “I’ve got it! And I’m buying.” He jabs a finger at Patrick him. “Don’t even try to argue.”

Patrick puts his hands up in surrender, then looks at Zach and rolls his eyes, but Chris has already turned away. 

“I think he has Domino’s on speed dial,” Babar says, shaking his head.

While Chris is busy with his phone call, the other three guys enlist Zach’s help in rearranging the furniture. They move the floor lamp closer to the wall, pull the coffee table made of wooden pallets back into the center of the room in front of the couch, and bring a couple chairs in from the other room. It gives Zach a good chance to get the lay of the land. The rehearsal space is a shabby apartment that consists mainly of one long room with scarred wooden floors and the barest hint of a kitchen. Only one wall contains windows, which makes it feel like a cave, even with the lights on and the curtains pulled back. Down a short hallway off the main room, there is one tiny bedroom and a run-down bathroom with chipped tile floors and a rust-stained shower. All of it would be far more depressing if anyone was living here full time. Patrick made it clear that while each of them have crashed in the place for some length of time—and occasionally spend the night after having one too many beers—no one officially lives in it. It’s strictly for Grimy Corp business.

“Why do you call yourselves the Grimy Corp?” Zach had asked at the time, and Patrick had answered, “You’ll know when you see the place.” Well, now Zach knows. ‘Grimy’ is the only word for it.

Not that he’s judging. His own apartment is hardly fit for a king, and he commends these guys for having the get-up-and-go required to put together their own acting group. A grimy rehearsal space is better than no rehearsal space at all. 

Once all the furniture is back in order and Chris wanders over, the interrogation begins. The guys want to know what Zach’s education and acting credits are, and after he’s mumbled his way through his resume, he dutifully asks them about theirs in turn. It’s a relief to find out they’re all in just about the same situation he is, mostly unable to find anything better than one-off TV spots and the occasional short theater run to get them by. Chris is the only lucky one among them. He has already been in two whole movies, one of them with _Julie Andrews_. And on top of that, he has a couple more coming out next year. Zach is incredulous.

“Lindsay Lohan?” he says, eyes wide with disbelief. “What was _that_ like?”

Chris grimaces. “It was about what you would expect.”

“He had a thousand-yard stare the whole time he was filming,” Patrick adds. “Poor guy. I mean, if that’s the price to pay for being in more movies, maybe we should all count ourselves lucky.”

Chris, who is sitting next to Patrick on the couch, rolls his eyes and gives him a shove. “Okay, it was bad, but it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“It sounds like you’re doing pretty well then,” Zach says, the ill-advised words rolling out of his mouth before he can stop them. “What do you need a group like this for?”

“What?” Chris lets out an incredulous laugh and throws his arm around Patrick’s shoulder. “These are my bros. We’ve been friends since before I landed my first movie. I’m not going to deprive them from my presence now.”

“Translation:” Babar says, “he loves us too much and would miss us if he was forced to rub elbows with A-listers all the time.”

Zach nods in understanding—because he _does_ understand now, and feels stupid for not getting it sooner. He can see it in the way Patrick doesn’t shrug off Chris’s arm and the way Babar and Reid are looking at him fondly. He can see it in the way Chris looks back at them, grinning his eye-crinkling grin. These guys aren’t just a random collection of actors who come together once or twice a week to give each other pointers. There is affection coming off of them in waves. They are comfortable with each other. They care about each other.

And they invited Zach to join them; that’s the real miracle here. This is something that’s been hard to find since he came to LA. Genuine community. A support system. Two things he needs even more than a job right now. They could still decide they hate him and kick him out, but Zach is trying— _trying_ —not to think too much about that now.

“So what do I have to do?” he asks. “Audition? Prepare a monologue for you guys?”

They all look at each other, smiling like Zach just said something funny. “No, Zach,” Chris says. “Patrick likes you, so you’re in. One of us vouching for you is all you need.”

It’s a wonder Zach doesn’t embarrass himself by crying all over again. He feels like he’s spent he last decade or more of his life fighting and clawing for every scrap of recognition he can get, begging to be seen as worthy by a community that has a gatekeeper around every turn. Even though this is really nothing in the grand scheme of things, just four guys sitting in a dingy apartment pledging to lend creative energy to each other, it somehow means more than he can say to have them welcome him just like that, with no hoops to jump through, no hazing, no prerequisite humiliation. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands. “Seriously, thank you.”

———

Two days after Zach’s first visit to the apartment, Patrick swings by his place to give him a key and tells him that he can hang out there any time, not just during their weekly meetings. “It’s a great place to clear your head,” Patrick says. “Sometimes I think there’s something magic about it.” It’s hard to imagine any magic in such a run-down place, but Zach nods and smiles anyway, and cradles the key in his hand like it’s a treasure.

The first time he decides to drop by the Grimy Corp Headquarters on his own, it’s empty, and he spends a couple hours there letting the atmosphere sink into his bones while he flips through the collections of plays that live in a bookshelf next to the window, sometimes reading lines aloud to himself. The second time he goes, it’s because Patrick texted them all and told them to meet him to give him pointers for an upcoming audition. Patrick reads through his prepared monologue over and over and over again, and the rest of them give him notes on it until it’s well past midnight and they’re all tired and frustrated and ready to go home—yet everyone still manages to summon smiles when bidding each other good night.

The third time Zach shows up, Chris is the only one there.

“Oh,” Zach says, stopping in his tracks a couple steps in the door. “I hope I’m not…uh…”

Chris is sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the couch, with a book in his lap. He looks up at Zach and grins, beckons him over. “Don’t be silly. I don’t own the place.”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Zach insists. But really it’s being alone with Chris that worries him. The memory of Chris’s monologue is still fresh in his mind, and if he knows himself at all, he knows his feelings of admiration for the guy could easily grow into a full-blown crush with barely any more nudging. He’s spent less than five hours total in Chris’s presence so far, but that’s been enough to find out that Chris’s talent comes with a heaping side of intelligence, humility, and ingenuousness. And that’s to say nothing of his smile. Or his eyes. Or his face in general. So, yeah. Dangerous. This is dangerous.

“You’re not interrupting anything.” Chris flips his book shut and gets to his feet. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping someone would show up.”

And just like that, Zach gives up on the urge to turn tail and run. He starts shrugging off his jacket instead. “You need help with something?”

“Only if you don’t have anything pressing.”

Zach doesn’t, which is how he ends up spending the rest of the afternoon laughing his ass off while Chris reads lines to him in a stilted hillbilly patois. Somehow Chris has landed a role as a neo-Nazi hitman in a move called _Smokin’ Aces_ , and he’s having trouble perfecting his redneck accent. He’s not having trouble perfecting any other part of it though, that’s for sure. It should be near impossible to imagine clean-cut, painfully pretty Chris Pine as a strung-out hick, but he really goes for it, putting his all into every single line, and it puts Zach in stitches. The third time he has to beg Chris to stop so he can catch his breath and wipe tears from the corner of his eyes, he gasps out, “ _How_ did you end up getting this role?”

Chris looks pleased with himself. His eyes are glinting like Zach’s hysterical laughter is the best reaction he could have hoped for, and like he could do this all night if he had to. “I was tired of getting cast as the romantic lead in all those insipid rom-coms,” he says with a shrug. “I told my agent I needed something different, and this is about as different as it gets.”

“You can say that again.” Zach looks him up and down, trying to imagine him tatted up and missing teeth. “Why the hate for romantic leads though? Isn’t that how all the best leading men get their start?”

Chris lowers his gaze and runs his thumb along the edge of the script. “It’s just not how I see myself, I guess. Those roles are…I don’t know. They don’t seem to _require_ anything of me. I get cast because I look the part, not because anyone really cares if I can act.”

“Could be worse,” Zach says, gesturing at himself. “You could be typecast as Generic Gay Guy.”

That earns him a sharp look, and for a second he panics, wondering if he made a mistake. Sometimes he forgets how reckless it is to out himself to another actor. Most of his friends already know, but if the wrong person finds out you’re gay in this town, it can kill your career before it even starts.

Luckily, Chris’s expression soon melts into a smile, and he reaches out to give Zach’s arm a friendly squeeze. “Yeah. I’m sorry, man,” he says, and Zach is surprised at the genuine sympathy in his voice. Even more surprised when he clears his throat nervously and adds, “To be honest, I worry about that too.”

Zach blinks, shakes his head. “You—?”

“Well, not in the same way, I guess. I’m bi.” He rushes through the words, like he doesn’t say them out loud much. “But I’m sure if anyone found out, they’d label me as gay anyway, since that’s usually the way these things go. It’s just one more way this business can beat you down, right? They’ll pick you apart any way they can. Reduce you down to some flat caricature of yourself.” He reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck. “I just don’t want to give anyone the chance to trap me in a box made of stupid cliches.”

Zach is speechless. He can feel himself gaping, but he can’t seem to get his expression to return to neutral. When Chris looks up and catches him staring, he snorts. 

“So you thought I was just a pretty face too, huh?”

“No,” Zach says automatically. Heat starts to rise into his cheeks. “I mean…well, not _just_ a pretty face. I got to see how good you are at your craft right away.”

“That monologue you mean? That was nothing.” Chris taps a finger against his script and grins. “ _This_ is where the talent comes in.”

Zach’s head is still spinning, but he manages a chuckle. It’s a lot to take in all at once. The fact that Chris is bi. The impassioned speech about subverting Hollywood stereotypes that has Zach thinking he should have a conversation with his own agent soon. And above all else, the knowledge that Chris is even more dangerously likable than he originally thought. Zach is going to have to be extra careful not to get in over his head—assuming he isn’t in over his head already. 

“Alright, hot shot,” he says, trying hard to sound normal, unfazed. “Why don’t you give me those last few lines again then? A little more trailer trash and a little less Georgia Peach this time.”

Chris sticks out his tongue, but then picks up the script again and slips back into his hillbilly persona. Zach tries to give notes between side-splitting bouts of laughter, but the hours still slip by like water through a sieve, too fast; and when they finally have to call it a night and Chris steps out of the apartment ahead of him, calling a reminder to lock up over his shoulder, Zach realizes he hasn’t had that much fun with another person in as long as he can remember.

———

Even after that day, Chris doesn’t immediately become a fixture in Zach’s life. Zach manages to land himself a job, a minor character—Generic Gay Guy, unfortunately—in Tori Spelling’s new show _So NoTORIous_ , and soon after that, Chris heads off to Lake Tahoe to film _Smokin’ Aces_. This is what happens in show business. People get busy and don’t have time to build deeper relationships. Zach reminds himself on the daily that he doesn’t know Chris well enough to miss him. It’s technically true, but it doesn’t explain how often Chris is in his thoughts anyway.

He does grow closer to the other guys in Chris’s absence. His filming schedule keeps him busy until the wee hours some nights, but the role is small enough that he doesn’t have to be on set every day, and he spends more and more of that downtime at Grimy Corp HQ. It gives him energy, being there. It makes him feel inspired. 

Reid, ever diligent and ambitious, has begun to put together plans to produce a play, and Babar is helping out and, as subtly as he can, angling to star in it. Patrick spends most nights perched in a chair in the corner, scribbling things down on a yellow legal pad. Bits of a screenplay, he says, and every now and then he reads lines aloud to get feedback. Privately, Zach thinks it’s not very good, and glancing around the room, he can tell Reid and Babar probably agree, but he wouldn’t dream of recommending Patrick give it up. Practice makes perfect, after all, and there’s something about the atmosphere of the run-down apartment that makes anything seem possible. How many great artists got their start in a place like this? How many came from humble beginnings and went on to land themselves a place in the history books?

There are still days, whole weeks even, when Zach worries the guys don’t _really_ like him, they’ve only come to tolerate his presence. But then there are nights when they’ve all put their work away and are sitting around, eating pizza and drinking beer and talking about their craft, and Zach feels like he really has found his tribe. He has other friends in the business, but there’s something different about these guys, this Grimy Corp. They take themselves seriously, but not _too_ seriously. Their ambitions are genuine, not thrust upon them by the competitive Hollywood culture around them. Truthfully, Zach has a lot to learn from them. He doesn’t think he’s quite transcended the need to be adored. He’s not sure he’s even capable of it. But they make him want to try.

The only thing he finds truly difficult to get used to is the razzing. In the past, when guys who look like Reid and Babar and Patrick made fun of him, they weren’t trying to get him to laugh at himself. They weren’t laughing with him. They were setting him up to get pushed into a locker or socked in the stomach. It’s hard—nearly impossible at first—to remind himself that these new friends of his don’t wish him that kind of ill will. This is just how they communicate.

“Think I can convince Chris to take a part in this play?” Reid asks one night, tapping his pencil against the edge of his script.

“You kidding me?” Babar says. “He’s a big shot now. He’s got scenes with the likes of Ben Affleck. We’ll be lucky if he still remembers us when he gets back from Tahoe.”

Patrick joins in without hesitation. “Even if he did, his head’s probably too big for him to get through the door by now. We’d have to find a new apartment.”

“I think it’s nice,” Zach says tentatively. “His success, I mean. He deserves it.”

“Puh-lease.” Babar tosses a balled up piece of paper at Zach, and it bounces harmlessly off his head. “You’re not fooling us, Sasan. You’re as jealous as we are. Or are you happy playing gay sidekicks to D-list actresses?”

Zach would take it harder if they weren’t teasing him in the same conversation in which they tore up Chris. Because he _knows_ how much they love Chris. He can see it in their faces when they talk about him. He can hear it in their voices, in the way none of their jabs have any true heft to them. They are proud of him, and even if they don’t have that depth of feeling for Zach yet, it stings much less to know that he’s in good company.

“Fine, you caught me,” Zach says, allowing himself to smile. “I hate his guts. Let’s bar the door when he gets back.”

But Zach doesn’t even find out Chris is back in LA until they run into each other out of the blue. It’s early morning, and Zach has made the stroll down the street to the the local coffee shop in hopes that some fresh air and caffeine will jump-start his energy level. He’s just putting out his hand to open the door when someone scoots around him and gets there first. Before he can work up a head of frustration, a voice says, “Zach,” and Zach turns to find himself staring into familiar blue eyes.

Chris must have just finished up a run, because he’s sweaty and breathing hard, his t-shirt clinging to his chest. He reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, making it stick up in spikes, then motions for Zach to go ahead of him into the shop, obviously eager to get out of the heat and into the air-conditioning. Zach skitters past him inside, then lingers, trying to come up with something to say. They haven’t spoken in weeks—not really. Zach exchanged phone numbers with all the Grimy Corp guys on the first day he met them, and every now and then he would get a text from Chris, a polite _How’s the show going?_ or some tidbit from Chris’s own filming adventures, but none of it really sparked much of a conversation. Zach couldn’t help but feel like it was just obligation that made Chris reach out to him, so he kept his answers short, not wanting to waste too much of Chris’s time. And Chris never pushed too hard, so it was easy for Zach to assume he was right.

Now, he’s at a loss, but Chris doesn’t seem in a hurry to jump into small talk anyway—possibly in part because his chest is still heaving in attempt to catch his breath. He puts a friendly hand on Zach’s elbow, nudging him toward the line, and they head over in tandem. When Chris’s arm drops back to his side, Zach still feels the impression of his fingertips.

“I think there are probably better places to go for your post-run hydration,” Zach says at last, hoping he sounds quippy rather than overly eager to break the silence.

Chris scoffs, swiping his forearm across his forehead. “Nuh-uh. I’ve earned this. Gatorade is for the weak.” Zach laughs, and it makes him grin, like he’s proud of himself. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Yeah,” Zach says. “I live just around the corner.”

“Hey, me too.” Chris thumps him on the shoulder. Is he extra tactile right now, or is Zach just hyper-aware of him? “We must be neighbors.”

It’s a wonder they haven’t run into each other here before, Zach thinks. Or maybe they have, back before they knew each other. Maybe Chris would blend into the background if Zach didn’t already know how he lights up in the spotlight. Then again…Zach’s gaze catches on a bead of sweat as it rolls down his neck and disappears under the collar of his shirt, and Chris catches him staring and smiles, his eyes crinkling. Then again, Zach amends, maybe not. 

“Yeah, umm.” Zach rattles off his address, and Chris nods and answers with his own, and sure enough, their apartments are within a ten minute walk of each other. Under normal circumstances, that would make Zach giddy with excitement. In a city where traffic is a nightmare and parking is worse, it’s a relief any time he finds that he’s within walking distance of something or someone, but in this case, he doesn’t know how to react. Does this mean they might see more of each other? And is that a good thing?

Chris seems to have no such hesitation. “You busy after this? Want to come back to my place and hang?”

Zach is helpless. A “yeah, sure” comes out of his mouth before he even has time to think about it, and his head is still buzzing by the time they’ve ordered their coffee, exited the shop, and walked the handful of blocks to Chris’s apartment complex. They make small talk along the way, Chris rambling about his last few days in Tahoe, the wrap party, the difficulty of readjusting to life at home and the hope that he’ll find his next job soon. He asks Zach what he’s been up to, but Zach doesn’t have much to say. At least, it doesn’t feel like he does. Nothing interesting, anyway. Chris can make anything sound interesting, even his coffee order, but Zach fears he’s the opposite; even details Chris might care about, like stories from his current set, would sound boring coming out of his mouth somehow.

Before he knows it, they’re walking through Chris’s door. Chris tosses his keys down on a table by the door and waves Zach in. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to grab a quick shower, if you don’t mind.”

“Go for it,” Zach says. He feels like a perv for taking one last deep breath as Chris walks by him, inhaling the strong smell of him, sweat and salt and deodorant working overtime, things that should be off-putting but instead make his chest constrict with desire. It’s a relief when Chris disappears down the hall and Zach can collect himself again.

He can’t resist the opportunity to look around, see what new information he can glean about Chris based on his living conditions. The kitchen is spotless in a way that suggests it’s rarely used rather than regularly cleaned. Beyond it, the dining area and living room are also pristine, but mostly because there’s not much to them. Chris has a slouchy couch, a couple of packed bookcases, a small dining table with four chairs, and a television sitting on top of a squat hutch. There is an abstract art print above the couch—something that could easily have come from a Pier 1—and an artificial tree in a pot in the corner, but otherwise the place is pretty bare. A true bachelor pad, except without any dirty dishes in the sink or empty beer cans littering the coffee table. It may only be this clean because Chris has been away, but Zach gets the feeling that isn’t the case. Chris doesn’t come across as fastidious, but he does seem _simple_ , the kind of person who just doesn’t keep a lot of extraneous crap around or generate much mess in his day-to-day life.

Zach wishes he were that kind of person too, but he’s always been one to hoard things—childhood keepsakes, souvenirs, various knick-knacks that catch his eye. And books, of course. He takes comfort in the fact that, looking at Chris’s bookcases, they have this in common.

When Chris emerges from the bedroom, damp and clean-smelling with his workout clothes traded for worn jeans and a t-shirt, Zach has made himself comfortable on the couch and is finishing the dregs of his coffee.

“This is a nice place,” he says, because his mom taught him to be polite and he hadn’t remembered to say it when he first walked in the door.

Chris snorts and shakes his head. “If you say so. I keep meaning to, like, decorate, but I don’t really know where to begin.”

“You mean that feature film money isn’t enough for you to hire an interior decorator?” Zach asks.

That surprises a laugh out of Chris. He waves a dismissive hand at Zach as he turns and heads for the kitchen. “You’d be surprised how little studios are willing to shell out for a no-name.” Zach hears the sound of the fridge opening. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“No, I’m good.”

Chris returns with a glass of water in one hand and sets it down on the coffee table before dropping himself onto the couch next to Zach, pulling one leg up so he can face him. He’s a little closer than Zach would have liked, but Zach can’t exactly shift away. He settles for keeping his elbows pulled in tight to his body.

“So,” Chris says, propping his elbow on the back of the couch and his chin in his hand, “tell me about yourself.”

Zach gapes, then chuckles, sure he’s missing some joke. “What?”

“The other guys have had weeks to get to know you, and I haven’t.” Chris shrugs one shoulder, as if it should be obvious. As if taking a genuine interest in others isn’t a rare trait. And Zach can tell it _is_ genuine. “Where’d you grow up? Where’d you go to school? How did you get into acting?”

Chris’s hand balls into a fist and he presses his cheek into it, his eyes meeting Zach’s unflinchingly and with candid attentiveness. It’s heady, having Chris focused on him like this. It would be heady to have _anyone_ focus on him like this, but those bright blue eyes, that perfect face—all of it adds up to Zach’s mouth going dry and his palms starting to sweat. This is ridiculous, he thinks. Chris is trying to be friendly, and Zach is reacting like a schoolgirl with a crush. He needs to put a lid on this before it gets any worse. They can be friends. He can be friends with someone like Chris.

He opens his mouth and begins to speak.


	2. Chapter 2

The problem is, once Zach starts to talk, he can’t seem to shut up. Not that morning, sitting on the couch with Chris and sketching out a brief timeline of his life. Not two mornings later, when he runs into Chris at the coffee shop again and they grab a table and end up staying for an hour, long after their cups are empty. And not any time they are alone together after that, which happens to be pretty frequently now that the ice is sufficiently broken. Chris has this way about him, a manner of listening that makes it seem like no one has ever bothered to say anything meaningful to him before and he’s thrilled to be trusted, finally, at long last. Like Zach is doing him a favor by opening up to him. No one has ever made Zach feel this heard before.

So it’s no surprise that eventually he starts to over-share.

Zach’s first kiss was with his childhood best friend, a boy named Justin Birch. It was the first day of their freshman year of high school, and they were walking home from the bus stop together, backpacks hanging off their shoulders, uniform ties loosened. Justin was babbling about the various mysteries and excitements that awaited them—how much he was looking forward to going out for the basketball team, how intimidating the seniors seemed, how much better the cafeteria food was—while Zach watched their feet hit the pavement in tandem so he wouldn’t watch Justin’s mouth. Only…only he was pretty sure he had caught Justin watching _his _mouth a time or two over the summer. He’d lost count of the number of nights he’d lain awake thinking of how incredible it would be if that were true, if they were really the same in this way. If he wasn’t the only person this twisted up inside, sick with equal parts longing and shame. So when they stopped in front of Justin’s house and Justin lingered, scuffing his toe against the sidewalk and growing pinker by the second, something inside Zach broke. He leaned in and pressed their mouths together, clumsy and off-center but determined nonetheless.__

__And, miracle of miracles, for several blissful seconds Justin kissed him back, fingers curling around the strap on Zach’s backpack to pull him closer. Zach could have cried for how good it felt, how _right_ ; it felt like the awful, snarled mess inside of him suddenly made sense._ _

__He should have known it was too good to be true. Too good for someone like him._ _

__“We can’t,” Justin gasped as he shoved Zach away hard, as if he hadn’t been clutching him a moment ago. When Zach only stared at him, stunned and helpless, he took another step backward, turned his eyes down to the sidewalk, and muttered, in explanation, “It’s a sin.”_ _

__The next day, Justin hadn’t come out of his house to meet Zach, and when Zach got to the bus stop, he found him already there, talking to someone else. Their eyes met for a second, but Justin looked away quickly, and the message was clear. They didn’t speak to each other again after that. Not one single time. Zach cried himself to sleep every night for a week._ _

__Zach tells Chris all of this at a completely inappropriate time: in the middle of a Grimy Corp party. It’s a real blowout too—not just the five of them but also good deal of their ever-expanding circle of shared friends—ostensibly thrown together to celebrate Reid and Patrick landing minor TV spots around the same time, but they all know it’s just an excuse to cut loose. As if they need an excuse._ _

__Everyone is thoroughly shit-faced, including Zach, which is probably part of the reason he’s spilling his guts. He’s midway through telling the story when he realizes he can’t remember why he _started_ telling it, but Chris is looking at him with wide, sympathetic eyes, his lips pursed into a thoughtful pout, and the words just keep flowing, seemingly without Zach’s volition. _ _

__“So, needless to say, I was super fucked up,” he says, gesturing with his empty beer bottle, “and lonely.”_ _

__Judging by the way Chris wrinkles his nose, he doesn’t buy Zach’s self-deprecating laugh. He leans closer and licks his lips, and Zach’s attention catches on that quick flick of his tongue, his inhibitions too low for him to keep his gaze to himself. He’s still staring when Chris starts talking._ _

__“Did it get better though?” Chris asks. “I mean, high school fucking sucks, man, but…after that?”_ _

__Zach scoffs. “Fuck no.” It comes out ‘fffffffuck no’, the alcohol apparently hindering Zach’s ability to use consonants. “College was no better. I mean, the school part was good, but I didn’t even have that many _friends_ , much less people who were interested in…you know. I didn’t know what to do with my hair or how to tame my eyebrows. I was a mess.”_ _

__“Okay, but you’ve been out of college, what, six years?” Chris asks. “And you’ve been here, working.”_ _

__Zach scoffs. “On what? Touched by an Angel? Lizzie fucking McGuire? This stupid Tori Spelling show?”_ _

__“24?” Chris adds hopefully. “You mean guys haven’t been throwing themselves at your feet yet?”_ _

__“Christopher,” Zach says, leaning in close to him, “I have not been anywhere near another dick in longer than I am prepared to admit to you.”_ _

__Okay, Zach wasn’t counting on admitting even _that_ much, but it’s too late now. _ _

__Chris lets out a low whistle. He shakes his head and puts his hand on Zach’s shoulder, squeezing it in sympathy, his expression as serious as if Zach has just told him he has a terminal illness. Maybe this _is_ a kind of terminal illness. Terminal celibacy. Incurable abstinence._ _

__“We’ve gotta do something about that, my friend.”_ _

__Zach throws up his hands. “You don’t think I’ve tried?”_ _

__The club scene isn’t his thing. Maybe it would get him laid, but...he has hang-ups, as he just pointed out. Hell, his hang-ups have hang-ups. He has only been out—to friends and family—for four years, and internalized shame isn’t so easy to shake. Good Catholic Boys don’t go to gay bars, and he can’t help but continue to think of himself as a Good Catholic Boy, even though he _isn’t_ anymore. Not really. If pressed, he isn’t sure he would be able to articulate what it is he believes these days. He would rather not think about matters of faith at all, but that—the avoidance—is a red flag in and of itself. _ _

__Anyway, it’s all a moot point, because he’s never really been the type to crave a fling. He gets attached too easily. He’d try to pick someone up and end up falling in love with them in the first five minutes._ _

__Speaking of falling in love, Chris needs to stop looking at him with so much understanding in his eyes._ _

__“You can’t just resign yourself to misery,” Chris insists, his voice bowing under the weight of his sincerity. “There’s gotta be a way to get over that hump.”_ _

__“Don’t use the word ‘hump’ right now,” Zach says. He’s joking. Mostly. He brings his beer bottle to his lips, then realizes it’s empty and glares at it for betraying him. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s just a...really, really long dry spell. It’ll pass.”_ _

__He isn’t sure it’ll pass at all, actually. In fact, sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly melodramatic, he lays in bed and imagines himself old, spouseless, childless, still replaying memories of the few drunk, sloppy bathroom blowjobs he white-knuckled his way through in college. He doesn’t even have _good_ memories to hold him over. The little experience he does have is laughable. At this point, if he ever does get a chance to go to bed with someone, he would probably just embarrass himself._ _

__Fuck, he’s too drunk for this. He shuts his eyes for a moment, unthinkingly, and when he opens them the room is tilting a little. “Listen, I should…” He wiggles his empty bottle, not sure if he means he needs a refill or just needs a break, but either way, the time has come to extricate himself from this conversation before he spills any more embarrassing secrets._ _

__After he throws the empty out in the kitchen, he heads down the hall to the bathroom, which is mercifully unoccupied. It’s quiet back here, and he takes a moment to take a deep breath and splash water on his face. He needs to chill. He hasn’t known Chris that long, relatively speaking. And sure, they’ve been spending more and more time together, sharing more and more of their lives with each other, but the verbal diarrhea he’s exhibited tonight has to be making Chris question whether this budding friendship is worth much. It’s just that maybe Zach is crushing a little—ever since that first night, if he’s being honest with himself—and Chris is such a good listener, and it’s hard _not_ to talk to him._ _

__Of course it would just so happen that when he opens the door, Chris is there, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms cross over his chest._ _

__“Oh, hey,” Zach says with a nervous little laugh. He assumes it’s one of those situations where they’ll just swap smiles and continue on their way, Chris into the bathroom and Zach back to the party, but the moment he starts to move in that direction, Chris pushes off the wall and steps into his path._ _

__“Wait,” he says, and something about the tone of his voice makes Zach’s stomach swoop. “You in a hurry?”_ _

__“I, umm, weren’t you going to…?” Zach gestures toward the bathroom, but Chris is getting closer now, invading his personal space and crowding him against the doorjamb._ _

__Before Zach has a chance to do any more embarrassing stammering, Chris reaches up and palms Zach’s jaw like it’s something he does every day. His thumb strokes against the grain of Zach’s stubble and then skates across Zach’s bottom lip, making him draw in a sharp breath._ _

__“So you know how I was saying we should do something about your celibacy problem?” Chris says. His smile is so wide and white and Zach can’t look away._ _

__Chris plucks at Zach’s cardigan and then slides his fingers up underneath it. This is probably the moment where Zach should say something. _This is a bad idea_ or _What exactly do you think you’re doing?_ But the brain cells are responsible for controlling his powers of speech seem to have gone offline._ _

__Which is fine, because he doesn’t need them a second later anyway. Chris’s big, long-fingered hand positions Zach just so, and he leans in until his smile goes out of focus, and then—_ _

__—And then they’re kissing._ _

__This is a kiss._ _

__Chris is _kissing him_. _ _

__The sound Zach makes in the back of his throat is high-pitched and embarrassing, the kind of thing he’ll be adding to his mental highlight reel of mortifying moments and replaying during bouts of insomnia for years to come. Chris chuckles like he’s delighted as he licks his way inside Zach’s mouth, all scorching heat and the hoppy-bitter taste of beer. The floor starts to pitch. Every bone below Zach’s neck turns to jelly. He reaches for Chris’s waist and clings to him, trying to stay upright, trying to keep up._ _

___Trying_ to keep up, because it’s been a long time since he’s seen any real action, but it’s been almost as long since he’s kissed anyone, and Chris is an exceptional kisser. He actually whimpers, much to his embarrassment, when Chris pulls away enough to say, “Come on,” and drag him off down the hall. And yeah, Zach is going to go wherever the hell Chris wants him to go right now. He could take him up to the roof and push him off, as long as he kisses him one more time first._ _

__Fortunately, Chris only drags him into the bedroom, but Zach is overcome by a bout of vertigo anyway. He might as well be falling from a great height for all that he has the ability to process any of this or predict where it’ll go next._ _

__Chris closes the door behind them and pushes Zach up against it, attacking his mouth again, combing his fingers up into his hair. The room is dark and quiet, which only makes everything seem more heightened—their ragged breathing, the little hums of pleasure Chris makes, the feeling of his nails scratching along Zach’s scalp. Zach is hyper-conscious of his own body; he feels stupid and uncoordinated, and he’s sure he’s one well-placed touch away from exploding into a million tiny pieces._ _

__“Okay?” Chris mumbles against his lips, and Zach’s face goes hot as he tries to figure out what’s giving him away. Is he shaking? Or is the whole world trembling around them?_ _

__“I’m fine,” Zach whispers, then shoves his hands up the back of Chris’s shirt in hopes of distracting him. He feels Chris’s mouth curve against his own before trailing down to his jaw and then his neck, so hot it must be leaving scorch marks in its wake._ _

__When Chris drops to his knees, it takes Zach a generous handful of seconds to figure out what’s going on, and by then Chris gets his fly open and is reaching inside, mapping the shape of him through his underwear. Zach gasps and his hips jerk forward, and Chris takes that as an invitation to press in with his whole face, mouthing over Zach’s cock, his breath blistering, his fingers bruising on the backs of Zach’s thighs. This can’t be happening, Zach thinks. He isn’t a person that this kind of thing happens to._ _

__“Wait,” he hisses. In his fumbling he manages to grab hold of Chris’s ear before anything else, and God, as if he isn’t embarrassing himself enough. He shifts his hold to Chris’s jaw and tilts his head up so they’re looking at each other. “Wait, slow down.”_ _

__“Huh?” Chris says, his brow knitting in confusion. And yeah, Zach can see his point. It’s not every day a man turns down a blowjob, especially not from a guy with lips like _that_. But Zach’s heart is jackhammering against his ribs like it’s trying to chisel its way out, and he is really regretting that fourth beer, and if things don’t stop now he fears it may end in tears._ _

__Or premature ejaculation._ _

__Or erectile dysfunction, oh God help him, he can’t decide what’s worse._ _

__“Just...wait,” he repeats. It takes him a moment to come up with something that resembles a good excuse. “I’m...I’m not really...” Zach huffs out an incredulous laugh and lets his head thunk back against the door, then shuts his eyes to cut back on the overwhelming amount of stimuli. Now is not a convenient time to confront all his hang-ups, but he’s not being given much of a choice. “I’m not sure…”_ _

__“Zach,” Chris says. It’s weird, the way Zach’s name sounds coming out of his mouth. Like he’s said it a million times before. Like it’s his favorite word. “Quit worrying. Let me take care of you.”_ _

___Take care of you._ It’s such a strange phrase. Bringing someone chicken soup when they’re sick is taking care of them. Letting them cry on your shoulder when they’ve had a bad day. Making them breakfast when they’re hungover. A blowjob? Not really in the realm of typical caretaking activities. And yet._ _

__“I want you,” Chris groans, and when Zach looks down at him, he has a hand in his own lap, kneading himself through his shorts, his mouth slack with need. It’s that image, that heady feeling of being desired, that makes Zach cave. He’s only human, after all. He can’t remember the last time someone wanted him, and he knows no one like Chris has _ever_ wanted him. No one this pretty or talented or…or _good_. The small voice in the back of his head telling him to pump the brakes is drowned out by the fear that he may never get an offer like this again. Zach’s fingers flex against the door and he nods his head frantically._ _

__“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay.”_ _

__Before Zach even has time to brace himself, Chris goes after him like he’s starving for it, yanking down his underwear and stuffing most of Zach’s half-hard dick into his mouth. Zach lets out an undignified whine, then brings one fist to his mouth to bite down on to keep from doing it again, gnawing on it hard enough he might draw blood. He can count on one hand the number of times someone has done this for him—without using all his fingers—and the last time was so long ago that he’d forgotten how good it could be, how intense._ _

__It’s hot and wet, soft lips and suction, and Chris is doing something fucking magnificent with his tongue, and Zach isn’t sure how he’s going to survive this. He can feel his pulse in his whole body. His skin feels too tight and too sensitive. It hurts. It’s so good it _hurts_._ _

__He spits out his fist and grips the edge of the door frame and mutters, “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” until Chris looks up at him, his eyes glittering in the dark, his mouth curving smugly around Zach’s cock. He pulls off for a second and jacks Zach with his hand, his palm sliding easily through the mess of saliva and precome._ _

__“Yeah, keep talking,” Chris says. “Love your voice.”_ _

__But now that he’s drawn attention to it, Zach feels embarrassed. It’s ridiculous; he performs for a living, and those who know him well would probably say he loves to hear himself talk a little too much. This is different though. This is too real, too raw, and he doesn’t know how to _do_ this. _ _

__“Chris,” he sighs, because it’s the only word that’s coming to mind. Chris rewards him by swallowing him down again, until the head of Zach’s dick is sinking briefly into the tight clutch of his throat. That sensation is a little more motivating, gets Zach babbling before he even has time to line up the words in his head. “Fuck, yes, that’s so good, so fucking good, I can’t—”_ _

__Chris hums around him, a pleased sound that might just be the most incredible thing Zach has ever heard. Of course he gets off on praise—everyone in their profession does to some degree or another—but something about the way Chris revels in it is particularly fetching. When Zach looks down, he can see Chris’s cheeks darkening even in the dim light, and it sends a little thrill through him, knowing he made that happen even though he’s barely holding himself together._ _

__“You’re so…God, Chris, you’re…” He can’t find a non-sappy ending to that sentence. _Amazing. Perfect. Beautiful._ None of those are appropriate for a clandestine hookup, so he just lets the words hang in the air and punctuates them with a groan instead, one he tries to muffle by turning his face into his shoulder. It’s a little easier to cope when he’s not looking at Chris anyway, even though he can’t escape the sensations. The way Chris’s fingers grip his waist just a little too tightly. The way he strives to get more and more of Zach into his mouth, swallowing around him to keep his gag reflex at bay. The warmth of his breath. The practiced slide of his tongue. _ _

__Zach is already so close, teetering right on the edge even though it feels like no time has passed at all. And God, there’s no way Chris won’t judge him for going off this fast. Zach will never be able to look at him in the eye again. His face is heating up already, even as his toes curl in the face of his impending orgasm._ _

__“Chris,” he hisses in warning._ _

__He threads his fingers into Chris’s hair, half-heartedly trying to pull him off, but Chris bats his hand away and sucks him harder, takes him deeper, and that’s it. Zach lets out a ragged, broken-off cry as he comes, tightening his grip on Chris’s hair. It’s almost too much, the wet inside of Chris’s mouth growing wetter, the suction that continues through the last pulse of Zach’s cock, until he’s well on his way to oversensitive but still doesn’t want it to stop. Chris swallows as he pulls off, letting his tongue drag like he wants to be sure he doesn’t miss a drop. Zach gasps and gasps, his mouth wide open in awe._ _

__Chris hums in satisfaction as he gets to his feet again. His hands are gentle as he tucks Zach back inside his pants, and they remain gentle when they grab at Zach’s wrist and press his palm against the erection tenting the front of Chris’s shorts. Zach’s fingers slide against the glossy fabric as they instinctively mold to the shape of him._ _

__There are many things Zach doesn’t know, but he knows how to do this. And he knows, even with his head still fuzzy, that he _wants_ to, needs to get his hands on Chris right-the-fuck now. He tugs down the waistband of Chris’s shorts and scoops him out and wraps his fingers around him. The angle is backwards, and it’s a little more difficult than he’s used to without the slide of foreskin easing the way, but dicks are pretty simple, and considering how hard Chris is, how much he’s leaking into the circle of Zach’s fingers, this probably won’t take long. _ _

__“Mmm,” Chris groans, the sound so much more obscene than it has any right to be. He leans in and buries his face in Zach’s neck, then seems to remember himself and mouths clumsily at his skin as if in encouragement. Zach’s cock gives a feeble twitch, even though he’s still sensitive and refractory. He cranes to catch Chris’s lips with his own, but Chris doesn’t have the coordination to do much more than pant against his mouth._ _

__“Yeah,” Chris gasps, his hand pawing at Zach’s chest and then twisting in his shirt. “Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna come.”_ _

__And then Chris’s other hand is at Zach’s waist, pushing his shirt up, and Zach doesn’t understand why until he feels something warm and wet hit his skin. He gasps, his abs seizing. His hand falters, but Chris covers it with one of his own to wring out the rest of his orgasm and smear it across Zach’s stomach._ _

__In the aftermath, Zach swears he’s breathing too hard. It sounds improbably loud in the silent room, and he would try to cover it up with some smart comment, but nothing is coming to him. His mind is full of white noise. He isn’t sure his throat would even work right now._ _

__His face is burning when Chris places one more soft kiss on his mouth and then retreats, crossing the room to retrieve something. He returns moments later with a handful of tissues, which he uses to clean up the mess on Zach’s stomach while Zach gapes at him through the darkness. Chris is very close, his face tilted down to watch the movement of his hand, and the ambient light outside the window provides just enough of a glow for Zach to study him. There’s a tiny mole next to his nose. His eyelashes are unnaturally long. His lips look even more obscene now that Zach knows what they can do._ _

__“There,” Chris says with a last swipe of his hand._ _

__“Uhh, thanks.” Zach tugs his shirt back down, then gestures ambiguously at his own torso. “And thanks for thinking to…”_ _

__“Oh, don’t mention it. You do this enough, you learn from your own mistakes.”_ _

__So he does this often then. All of this is probably easy for him—wham, bam, won’t even consider calling you in the morning. Zach tries to choke down the sudden, hot rush of shame, but it doesn’t work all that well. He feels queasy, and he can’t quite meet Chris’s eyes anymore._ _

__“Hey, you okay?” Chris asks, concern in his voice, his hand coming down on Zach’s shoulder and squeezing._ _

__“Oh, I, umm, yeah,” Zach stammers. “Just...just...too much beer, I think.”_ _

__Chris makes a sympathetic noise and squeezes his shoulder again. Then, he pulls away and walks over to dump the soiled tissues in the wastebasket. Zach can’t help but marvel at how nonchalant he is. Sometimes it seems like Zach is the only person in LA—or possibly the world—not having regular, casual sex._ _

__But this, this sick feeling, is the reason why. He doesn’t like the way his stomach is still churning or the way his brain is providing him with a hundred ways this was a bad idea and will probably come back to bite him. He doesn’t like the feeling that Chris might walk out this door and not think about any of this ever again._ _

__That train of thought is effectively halted when Chris walks back over and kisses him, one hand braced on the door next to his head, the other one gripping his waist. Zach sighs into it and shuts his eyes. If this might be a one-off, all the more reason savor it now._ _

__“We should get back,” Chris says when he pulls away. “Before they start getting too suspicious.”_ _

__“You don't think they'll be suspicious already?” Zach asks, eyeing Chris's kiss-plumped lips._ _

__“Well, they do know me.” Chris winks. “It'll be fine. You go ahead and I'll be right behind you.”_ _

__Zach steps out into the hallway alone, feeling like he’s embarking on a mini walk of shame. His scalp is tingling, and he can’t stop flexing his hands, wishing he could fit them into his pockets. The sounds of the party get louder and louder until he’s standing at the mouth of the hallway, and the vertiginous feeling he had when Chris was kissing him returns, only this time much less pleasant, like he’s looking into the room through a fish bowl. He half-expects everyone to look up at once in silent judgment, but not one pair of eyes turns his way. Probably no one even noticed he and Chris were gone._ _

__They also probably don’t notice when Zach skirts the living room and heads for the front hall instead, where his jacket is hanging on a hook along with everyone else’s. He picks it out of the bunch, pats at his pockets with shaky hands to make sure he has his keys on him, and heads for the door._ _

__It probably makes him look like a coward, running like this, but he doesn’t care. He already knew he was a coward. Tonight, it’s lowest on his list of character flaws._ _


	3. Chapter 3

They’ll both forget all about it, Zach thinks. He wakes up the next morning to a debilitating hangover and a text from Chris— _Where did you disappear to?_ —but he ignores it, because it doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever happened in that dark bedroom, it was a one time thing, and it’s over, and all Zach has to worry about now is how he’s going to look Chris in the eye next time he sees him. 

It turns out, it isn’t that hard, because next time they’re all at Grimy Corp HQ together, Chris acts like nothing happened. Not that Zach would expect anything different. What would he do, grab Zach and kiss him in front of everyone? They had one drunken tryst; they aren’t boyfriends. So when Chris asks for input on his reading of a line, Zach gives it to him, and when Chris claps him on the shoulder on his way out the door, he smiles and murmurs a goodbye, and he tries his best to pretend that everything is normal.

If Chris doesn’t buy the act, he doesn’t give any indication of it. Unfortunately, Patrick is either more astute or more direct. It only takes a couple more nights of Zach’s quiet agony before Patrick pulls him aside, down the hall toward the bedroom Zach has been avoiding, and asks, point blank, “So what’s up with you and Chris?”

“Up?” Zach repeats. “Nothing’s up.”

His poker face is awful. Patrick gives him a look that says he sees right through it. “Your puppy dog eyes have to be visible from space at this point, Zach.”

“It’s nothing,” Zach insists again. “Nothing to worry about, anyway. I just—”

“Listen.” Patrick is looking at him with pity now, and it makes his stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. “I just thought I should warn you, even if nothing has happened yet. Chris is a great guy, one of the best guys I know, but when it comes to relationships he’s…he doesn’t really know what he wants, okay? I’ve seen a lot of people look at him the way you look at him, and they all ended up broken hearted in the end. He doesn’t do it on purpose—he’d never hurt anyone on purpose—but still, it happens. So just…don’t get your hopes up.”

Zach lets out a frustrated breath and looks away, raking his fingers through his hair. He hates this, hates how pathetic he must seem. “You don’t need to worry about me. You think I’ve never had a crush on someone out of my league before?” He wrinkles his nose. “Anyway, that’s all it is: a crush. I’ll be over it by this time next week.”

Patrick doesn’t look like he buys that explanation either, which is unfair given that Zach actually feels like he’s being truthful this time. This _isn’t_ the first time he’s caught feelings for the wrong person—at least Chris isn’t straight or repressed like some of Zach’s past mistakes—and he knows himself well enough to know it won’t be the last time either. In his rare moments of self-awareness, he thinks he might be drawn to unavailable men _because_ they’re unavailable, because it’s safer if he knows it can never get serious. Maybe it’s ambitious of him to think this thing he has for Chris will fade away in a matter of days—especially since they’ve actually hooked up, which is a lot farther than he got with most of his past crushes—but it _will_ fade eventually. It has to. Nothing lasts forever.

“Just be careful, man,” Patrick sighs. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“I will. Really.” He already is, he tells himself. Puppy dog eyes notwithstanding, he already knows that what happened between him and Chris won’t happen again. Patrick is fussing over nothing.

He is so desperate to prove it—to himself as much as Patrick—that the next time Chris invites him over, just a week later, he doesn’t say no.

The text comes at 9 pm, late enough that Zach should probably refuse on principle, but as soon as he sees that, _Hey, you busy?_ , he knows he can’t go on avoiding Chris any longer, not if he ever wants to move past what happened between them. He tells Chris he'll be there in five.

He isn't sure exactly what to expect. Maybe they'll crack a couple of beers and throw on a movie. Maybe Chris will manage to coax him out to a nearby bar. Maybe they'll just sit around and commiserate about their dissatisfaction with their career trajectories, an evergreen topic for both of them as well as the rest of the Grimy Corp guys. 

The last thing he’s expecting is for Chris to greet him at the door with a hug and immediately shepherd him into the living room to sit down, for his arm to stretch out on the couch behind Zach, and for him to lean in close, his expression grave. 

“So,” Chris says, his eyes scanning Zach’s face, “want to talk about why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Zach has never felt more like a deer caught in the headlights in his life. This is the last thing he expected when Chris invited him over. It’s the last thing he expected _ever_. And he can’t think when Chris is focusing all his attention on him, studying him like he really does care about the answer to this question. 

“I-I didn’t…” he stammers. “I wasn’t…”

Chris lifts his hands, palms out, as if in surrender. “Look, what happened at that party…if you wanted it to just be a one-time thing, I’m fine with that. I can forget about it. I just don’t want things to be uncomfortable between us.”

_If_ , he said. If. As if there was ever any other option on the table. Well, okay, apparently there _was_ another option, but Zach is having trouble wrapping his mind around that one. Even if it wasn’t pity, what Chris did for him, still Zach knows how this kind of hook-up culture works. He has heard enough sordid tales from his friends. Perfunctory handjobs in the bathrooms of clubs, getting a certain look from some lackey on set and inviting them to your place for the night, and then by the next morning you were back to fake smiles or ignoring each other entirely. Maybe it’d happen again with the same person a couple weeks or months later, but it was never something you talked about. Never something you planned or pinned your hopes on. Chris is breaking the rules here, and Zach doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I…it…I assumed you were the one who wanted it to be a one-time thing,” Zach says, his hands clenching into tense fists on top of his thighs.

Chris grins, like Zach just said something funny. “I usually save the one-night stands for people I’m not going to be seeing a lot in the future.”

“Ahh,” Zach says, even though he doesn’t really understand.

“Anyway, like I said, it won’t happen again if you don’t want it to. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t do something wrong or, I don’t know, upset you somehow. Because I wouldn’t have made a move on you if I wasn’t open to a, uh, repeat performance, but maybe you didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t know that,” Zach echoes dumbly. 

“Yeah, I just.” Chris wrinkles his nose and rubs the back of his neck, as if he’s suddenly feeling shy. “I want us to be friends, but also, you’re hot, so…”

“I’m…what?” Hot? No. That must not have been the word Chris was going for. Or he’s just being nice. Or _something_. No way can Zach take any of this at face value.

It feels weird, having this conversation so candidly in the middle of Chris’s living room. Zach has been conditioned to believe that all conversations involving feelings and sex should take place under a shroud of plausible deniability. In the middle of the night, or when both parties are drunk, or somewhere public so they can use the threat of someone overhearing as an excuse to put things in the vaguest of terms. In his family, they never had heart-to-hearts, not even when his father died. Not even when he came out. His mother was cold because she had to be, the world made her that way; and Joe was the strong one, the stoic one, who pretended he could be the man of the family. Zach learned quickly that broaching any kind of uncomfortable topic was a cardinal sin. Better to sit and stew, then eventually push it down and forget about it. Which is exactly what he was trying to do about _this_ situation.

“Hot, Zach,” Chris repeats, grinning, oblivious to Zach’s inner turmoil. “You know, attractive. Winsome. Comely. I’d been waiting for the right time to—”

Zach snaps. He can’t take another second of this. The more Chris talks, the more he feels like his head is going to explode, so better to do something, anything, to shut him up. And the method he chooses is winding his fingers into Chris’s shirt, jerking him close, and kissing him.

Chris makes a soft _mmph_ sound against Zach’s mouth, but it doesn’t take him long to get on board with the kissing. His hands come up to frame Zach’s face, his thumbs stroking Zach’s cheekbones as if to gentle him even as he licks into his mouth in a way that makes him feel decidedly un-gentle. If he gets to have this, then he wants to revel in every part of it, devour everything Chris will give him, whatever that may be.

“Been thinking about you,” Chris says, breaking the kiss to nip at the underside of Zach’s jaw, his voice so rough Zach expects it to embed itself in his skin. 

“Yeah?” Zach’s hands slide up to Chris’s shoulders where he renews his grip on Chris’s shirt, keeping him close. “What do you…what were you thinking about?”

Chris is working his way upward again, and his lips end up landing at the corner of Zach’s mouth. “I was thinking how we didn’t get a chance to finish what we started.”

There’s a joke in there, Zach thinks, about how they both definitely _finished_ , but he has neither the composure nor the wit to pull off a comment like that at a time like this. He does, however, have barely the willpower to flatten his hands against Chris’s chest, against his too-thin t-shirt, and push him backward an inch or two, enough to meet his eyes. “Finish what we started?”

This time the pink in Chris’s cheeks is unmistakable. He licks his lips—which Zach is coming to understand is a nervous tic of his—and glances away, but when his eyes return to Zach’s, he seems to have found his bravado again. He smirks and grips Zach’s waist a little tighter. “Don’t get me wrong. I had a lot of fun the last time,” he says, “but I was hoping…”

Chris is looking at him like he’s supposed to understand now, but he doesn’t. Not in the slightest. He swallows hard and parrots Chris again: “Hoping…?”

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me say it?” Chris chuckles like he’s impressed, like Zach is doing this on purpose. He’s flushing deeper now, and as close as they are Zach thinks he can feel the heat coming off his skin. “I want you to take me to bed,” he says, a little breathlessly. “I want you…want you to fuck me.” 

At first, Zach doesn’t believe what he just heard. Yes, Chris invited him over, and yes, Chris’s mouth was on his neck a moment ago, but still Zach has been waiting for the catch, the punchline, the moment when Chris admits the first time was borne of misguided charity and he has no intention of repeating it. There is a small, scared part deep inside of him, a part he pretends doesn’t exist, that doesn’t believe _anyone_ could see him as desirable, much less someone like Chris. Someone beautiful and talented and successful. Someone who could probably have his pick of men, and women too. Is this really why Chris invited him over tonight? What does Zach have that’s special? How could Chris want _him_? 

But Chris as looking at him steadily, his expression open and vulnerable, his fingers still clutching Zach’s waist like he’s afraid he’ll run away. All the amusement has gone out of his expression, and if he’s acting, if he’s setting Zach up in some way, he’s doing a damn good job of it. 

“I…” Zach has no idea what to say. He doesn’t know what he _wants_. The inside of his head is a mess of blind panic. All he can think to do—while his brain cells self-immolate—is kiss Chris again. 

As a stalling tactic, it isn’t a bad one, given how Chris groans into it and shoves his fingers into Zach’s hair and, most importantly, stops talking, but it’s also just putting off the inevitable in a way that has Zach going hot and cold all over in turns, his hands shaking where they rest against Chris’s neck. Chris’s skin is warm, impossibly soft when Zach’s thumbs stroke just under his ears. Zach wants to touch him more, elsewhere, but more than that he wishes he had the guts to pull away and try to explain what’s going on in his head. Because Chris deserves to know, doesn’t he? He deserves to know what he’s getting himself into.

If Zach could find the right words, that is. Which is a big damn _if_.

Because there are a million reasons why Zach’s experience is so limited, but he thinks he’d sound silly—or pathetic—trying to explain any of it out loud. It’s because of a childhood spent sitting in an uncomfortable church pew, tugging at his collar, trying not to squirm too much and draw that weary, disappointed look he so dreads seeing on his mother’s face. It’s because of years in confessionals, offering up minor sins while biting his tongue against the major ones. It’s because when he told his brother he thought he was gay, he didn’t miss the flicker of revulsion that crossed his face before he pulled himself together and smiled—and because his mother didn’t even try to hide her revulsion at first. He overheard her asking Joe once, “What would your father think?”

They love him now—he knows that. Joe accepted him almost immediately, after that first moment of weakness. His mom took a lot longer, but she’s come around as much as any devout Catholic ever could. Still, those early years set the stage for the rest of his life—the smothering Catholic high school; the college where he was much happier and yet still never could shake the feeling that he was a walking, talking stereotype; and the many auditions when he first moved to LA where casting directors would take one look at him, purse their lips, and shake their heads. As much as he wants to rise above it all, that kind of stuff leaves its marks on a person. A couple years of talk therapy weren’t enough to fix it. Sometimes he thinks nothing at all will fix it.

It isn’t even just that, though. He could tell Chris all this, prattle on about his issues, even throw around phrases like ‘internalized homophobia’, and it wouldn’t scratch the surface. It wouldn’t explain why he falls in love with everyone who’s nice to him, everyone who so much as _touches_ him. It wouldn’t explain his abandonment issues or his daddy issues—which are really one and the same if you think about it—not to mention the deep-seated suspicion that, even if you strip all that other baggage away, he’s not really that lovable a person.

He could tell Chris, _“I’ve never fucked anyone.”_ He could say it nicely, shyly: _“I’ve never done anything like that before.”_ And Chris would be kind and understanding and everything Zach could ask a person to be, and it would only make things worse.

So instead he bites gently on Chris’s bottom lip and waits for the ensuing gasp to ask, “Bedroom?”

Maybe he’ll tell Chris all of it someday and maybe he won’t, but for now, he’s tired of wallowing in self-pity. If he can just get this out of the way…if he can just…

Chris takes him by the hand, grinning, and drags him out of the kitchen, past the living room, and down a short hallway to a bedroom that reminds Zach to an absurd degree of his own bedroom when he was in high school. Plaid sheets, rumpled comforter hanging off the end of the bed, movie posters on the walls— _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark_. Zach bets all of this came with Chris from his parents house to college to here. Not that he’s passing judgment. It’s sweet, in a way. A lot of guys would be embarrassed about a room like this, too embarrassed to bring girls—or guys—back to it, but of course Chris can pull it off. Zach is charmed enough that he almost forgets to be nervous for a second. Almost. Until Chris reels him in and kisses him again, dirtier than before, his fingers sneaking up under Zach’s shirt.

“Off,” he says impatiently, and drags the shirt up over Zach’s head. “Clothes off. I didn’t get to really look at you the other night.”

Zach would protest, but Chris has already started working on his own clothes, and he decides standing around awkwardly while Chris gets naked isn’t really an option. His fingers feel too big and clumsy as they work on the button of his fly, but he eventually gets it open and strips his jeans and underwear off in one go, quick, like ripping off a bandaid. He’s proud of himself for remembering to step out of his shoes first. And glad Chris is too preoccupied with his own undressing to watch as he bends down and tugs off his socks.

When he straightens up, Chris is already on the bed, propped on his elbows like he’s in a fucking Playgirl spread. Zach forgets all about being bashful; he can’t do anything but _look_.

“Get over here,” Chris says through a laugh. He’s staring too, drinking Zach in like he said he wanted to, and Zach is a little incredulous about the pleased expression on his face. But he’s even more incredulous about Chris’s body, the jut of his collarbones, the divots in his hips, his soft-looking inner thighs. And—Zach can’t avoid it—Chris’s cock, long and thick and plumping up under Zach’s gaze. Zach has had it in his hand, but it looks bigger now than he remembers. More perfect, too. Pink and well-shaped. Pretty, really—there’s no other word for it.

“Zach,” Chris prompts again, and Zach, with some effort, forces himself out of his head and into motion. He climbs onto the bed on his knees and curls one hand around Chris’s ankle, but that’s about as much as he can manage. Already his breath is coming too fast and too loud. He can only hope Chris finds it flattering rather than pathetic.

“You—” Zach stops himself, shakes his head a little. What next? How does he move, speak, _breathe_ with Chris’s skin under his hands? He tightens his grip on Chris’s ankle, swallowing hard against the nerves bubbling up the back of his throat. Then, he gets an idea—a good one. One that might just save him. “You should tell me what you want,” he says as steadily as he can, not quite meeting Chris’s eyes. “Exactly what you want.”

Chris laughs again, tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Exactly?”

“I want to make you feel good,” Zach clarifies. How his voice isn’t shaking, he has no clue. “You have to tell me how.”

“I can do that,” Chris says gamely, reaching for him. “Come up here and kiss me.”

Zach does, because that’s easy enough and because it’s familiar enough and because it lets him hide for a moment and regroup. Chris is a fucking amazing kisser too; Zach didn’t properly appreciate it the other night. His fingers gently cradle Zach’s chin, moving him where he wants him, and he uses exactly the right amount of pressure, the right amount of tongue. Zach would be content to rest here and let Chris kiss him until his over-active brain melts away. But of course, Chris has other things he wants to get to. Things he’s been _thinking about_. God, Zach still can hardly believe it. 

“Touch me,” Chris murmurs, kissing his way up to Zach’s ear. When Zach wraps his fingers around Chris’s cock, he grunts and arches into the touch, but a moment later he’s shaking his head. “No, not there. I can’t…I want…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Zach may be a novice, but he’s not stupid. Ignoring the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears, he nudges Chris’s legs a little wider and drops his hand to glide along the velvet skin of his inner thigh, coaxing him into bending his knee back toward his chest. 

“Wait, give me your hand,” Chris says, and when Zach does, unquestioningly, Chris tugs it up to his face and takes two of Zach’s fingers into his mouth. The hot, wet suction that Zach remembers all too well from the other night makes heat flare in his gut, and he pushes down a little against Chris's tongue, as if to verify that this is really happening. Chris moans in response and sucks a little more urgently, getting Zach's fingers as wet as he can. By the time he lets his jaw go slack and releases Zach's hand, Zach is struggling to breathe at all.

Chris pushes Zach's hand down again, back between his legs, and nods. "There," he says. "Now."

At first, Zach is tentative, swirling his finger around Chris's hole but reluctant to push inside. But then Chris makes an impatient sound and arches against him, and he forces himself to move, to give Chris what he wants, to breach him slow and steady and with all the care he can muster.

It feels...Zach doesn't even have the words for how it feels. He has never done this before, never been inside someone—even with just fingers. He hasn't even tried it on himself; regular old jerking off caused him enough internal conflict when he was a teenager, and he wasn't about to consider adding any penetration to the mix. Maybe God would look the other way when it was clear everyone and their brother touched themselves sometimes, but He probably wouldn't look the other way for something so—so gay.

But now is the last time to be thinking about God, so Zach pushes those thoughts away as he pushes inside Chris to the last knuckle, marveling at how sweltering hot, how impossibly tight he is. It's almost too much, just this little thing. Just this one finger. Zach squeezes his eyes shut and bites down hard on his bottom lip and tries his best to swallow down the sudden up-swell of emotion, fear and awe and desire and uncertainty somehow all mixing together in a way that makes his cheeks burn and his lungs constrict.

"It's okay," Chris says gently, obviously assuming Zach's hesitation is for his sake. "I'm good. I can take another one."

Zach forces his eyes open again, but he can't meet Chris's gaze. Instead, he looks down and watches as he slides a second finger up next to the first and both disappear inside Chris's body, easier than Zach would have expected. But of course, only one of them is at their first rodeo here. Chris is probably used to this. He probably does it all the time. He—

"Mmm, move," Chris whines, and Zach can't do anything but obey him. He can force his mind to shut down if he focuses on feeling, on the way Chris opens around him, the way he clenches involuntarily against Zach's fingers when something feels good, the way his thighs slide against Zach's when he arches off the bed. Zach lets himself explore a little, scissoring his fingers and crooking them until he finds a spot that makes Chris curse and reach down to grip his wrist, urging him to touch him there again. So Zach does, and then he does it again, and again, until Chris is chanting "fuck, fuck, fuck," and twisting his upper body to reach into his nightstand. A moment later, a small bottle and a condom packet land in Zach's lap.

"Come on," Chris says. "Want you now."

Zach's hand is shaking when he withdraws his fingers. It's fear of making a fool of himself that has him tossing the condom back at Chris and telling him, "Put it on me," but Chris doesn't seem to notice the nerves behind it, because he groans like Zach just said something unbearably hot and scrambles to comply. Once he's finished, he pulls Zach down for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, his fingers twisting into Zach's hair. It serves as a good distraction while Zach goes through the motions of dumping lube into his palm and slicking himself up, keeping his mind detached from the action, refusing to think about what comes next. All that matters right now is kissing Chris, reveling in the way Chris clings to him and sucks on his tongue.

But of course Chris isn't patient forever. It isn't long before he's bucking his hips, his leaking cock painting a wet trail across Zach's abs as he tries in vain to get Zach where he wants him. "Zach," he says, a plea.

Now is not the time for Zach to wonder if he can do this, but fuck, can he do this? What if he hurts Chris? What if he comes the moment he's inside? What if it's painfully obvious that this is a first for him, and Chris laughs him out of bed? What if he regrets all of it and has a nervous breakdown? He takes a deep, steadying breath and rests his forehead against Chris's, trying to find something comforting to hold on to. Anything to get him out of his head.

"Remember," he says at last, his voice so low it's almost unrecognizable to his own ears, "I want you to tell me exactly how you like it. Talk me through it."

"Yeah," Chris agrees, though he sounds like he’d say yes to anything right now. "Just...just...put it in me already, goddamn."

Zach groans and sits up just enough that he can reach down and line himself up. Don't think about it, he tells himself. Just do it. The pep talk almost doesn't work, because if Chris felt tight around his fingers, he feels like a vice around the head of Zach's cock, and for a moment Zach is certain this isn't going to work. Maybe this is just an elaborate prank and anal sex isn't really a thing at all; maybe dicks and asses really aren't compatible. He's either going to pass out or go off like a shot any second. 

But then Chris's legs fall open a little wider, and he lets out a slow breath, and suddenly the resistance is all but gone. Zach is sliding into him, inch by impossible inch. "Oh, shit," he hisses under his breath, shifting a hand to Chris's thigh where his fingers dig in a little too hard. "Is this..." He looks up and meets Chris's eyes. "Okay?"

Chris lets out a breathy chuckle. "More than fucking okay, Zach. Don't stop."

So Zach doesn't. He breathes through it as well as he can, until his hips are snug against the underside of Chris's thighs and he has no choice but to stop moving, nothing left to give. That's it. He is all the way inside—inside Chris—and it's so surreal that he has to grip Chris even tighter just to reassure himself that he isn't hallucinating. 

"Mmm, give me a sec," Chris says, shifting his hips minutely. One of his heels comes up to the small of Zach's back as if to pull him closer, but they are already as close as two people can possibly get. "Fuck, you feel so good."

Zach almost shakes his head in disbelief at that. It has to be obvious by now, doesn't it? It has to be obvious how much of an amateur he is. So why is Chris looking at him like he's just done magic, even though he hasn't truly done anything yet?

"Alright," Chris breathes after another moment. "Okay, you can move."

The slow slide out is almost more intense than the slow slide in, and Zach's thighs tremble both with nerves and the strain of keeping himself under control. Chris still feels impossibly tight around him, but it must be alright, because the expression on his face is rapturous, his jaw slack, his eyelids fluttering. 

"How do you want it?" Zach asks, suddenly desperate to fill the silence. "Tell me."

"Here, like this." Chris bends his knees and then pulls Zach down a little more so he can hook them over Zach's forearms, changing the angle. "Just...just go slow for now."

Slow is good. Slow, Zach can do. He tips forward a little more, bringing Chris's hips up off the bed, and rocks back into him, a little easier this time. Truly, he would be content just staying fully seated inside Chris, not moving at all, but unfortunately that won't get either of them anywhere. Still, he can't help but feel some regret each time he has to pull out of the grasping heat of Chris's body. It makes it that much sweeter when he pushes in again, often drawing small, pleased sounds from Chris's mouth.

Soon, possibly too soon, Chris is gripping him by the shoulders, then the hips, and pulling him in a little more urgently. "Yeah, you can...harder," he says.

In his eagerness to comply, Zach snaps his hips what he fears may be too hard, but Chris rakes his nails down Zach's back and groans, "fuck, yes," and it's a miracle Zach doesn't come right then and there. He pauses for a second, trying to catch his breath, but Chris writhes against him and tells him not to stop, and he can't help but listen. Anything to make it good for Chris, even if that means this will all be over too quickly.

At first, he tries to still go slow, fucking Chris is long, rough strokes that punch the air out of both of their lungs. As long as he keeps watching Chris's face, looking for signs of discomfort, cataloging each of his reactions, it's a little easier to ignore the pleasure building deep in his own gut. But it isn't long before his hips are moving faster of their own accord, his body urging him toward something that his mind wants to put off as long as possible. He is suddenly full of this nonsensical certainty that if he can just drag this out forever, he'll never have to face the reality of it, the consequences of it; and yet he is powerless to resist the growing urgency he feels both in himself and in Chris, who is bucking his hips up to meet Zach now, encouraging him to pick up the pace.

"Yeah," Chris moans, "yeah, give it to me."

Zach lets out a sound like a sob, which he muffles by dropping down onto his forearms to kiss Chris again, sloppily. He thrusts harder, faster, until Chris wrenches their mouths apart to groan a constant stream of profanity in his ear. 

"This what you want?" Zach asks, and ducks down to bite at Chris's collarbone--not hard, but hard enough. He isn't sure where this version of himself is coming from, but it feels so fucking good. He feels powerful, moreso with every needy noise dragged from Chris's mouth, every plea. Chris is flushed from his face down to the middle of his chest, and his cock is leaking copiously, and Zach did this. Zach made him feel like this—made them both feel like this. Suddenly, all his anxieties are falling away, and he wonders how he could ever have feared something this fucking beautiful. This wholly and completely good.

"Right fucking there," Chris says, gripping Zach by the ass and yanking him in hard enough to make them both grunt. "You're gonna make me come. Fuck."

"Can you come like this?" Zach asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "Without me touching you?"

"I think...yeah. If you...just..."

When it happens, it's breathtaking. Chris's head goes back and his mouth falls open, and he arches off the bed, hands falling to grip the sheets as he comes hard enough to stripe both his own chest and Zach's. Zach has every intention to keep fucking him through it, to see how long he can drag it out, but the moment he feels Chris clench around him, it’s over. One last hard snap of his hips, and he's done, pulsing out his own orgasm deep inside Chris while Chris is still gasping beneath him.

Zach loses time then--maybe only seconds, maybe a minute, but when he comes back to himself, his head is on Chris's shoulder and Chris's fingers are in his hair and they are both trying to catch their breath. It's embarrassing, a little, to have collapsed on him so readily, but when he makes to shift away, Chris grips him tighter and makes a disagreeable sound. "I'll clean us up in a sec," he says. "Just let me enjoy this."

That's fine—more than fine. Zach is in no hurry if Chris isn't. He is content to listen to the thumping of his heart and the comforting rush of his breath, to put off the awkwardness that will surely come after this. He lets his eyes fall shut, presses a kiss to Chris's neck, and lets his mind go fuzzy blank. As long as they lay here, tangled up in each other, Zach won't have to think at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: next week's chapter will either be a couple days early or a couple days late, as I might be in the hospital either having or just had a baby. :D I'll try to post it early if I have any warning, but otherwise, I'll post it when I get a chance! Thanks in advance for your patience.
> 
> Also, I promise the rest of this isn't just sex scenes with a thin veneer of plot. They do communicate eventually. Really they do!! Thanks so much for all your lovely comments and encouragement so far. <33


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient in waiting for this chapter! I'm probably going to have to go to an every two weeks posting schedule from now on, but we'll see. Things may settle down more than I think soon. Thanks so much for your support in the meantime! <33

The first thing Zach thinks when he opens his eyes is how stupid it was for him to spend the night. The second thing he thinks is that he’s very, incredibly screwed, because Chris is pressed up against his side, breathing warm into his neck with one arm wrapped around his waist, and there is no way he can extricate himself from this situation without rousing him. This was bound to be awkward enough already, but now...

Now Zach is panicking. Really, truly panicking in that heart-racing, can't-breathe kind of way that will surely wake Chris sooner rather than later. His skin feels sticky, and he can smell the evidence of last night's activities clinging to the sheets. He has a vague recollection of Chris getting up at some point in the night, before they'd both truly fallen asleep, and disposing of the condom, then giving them both a perfunctory swipe with a washcloth before falling back into bed. That would have been—should have been—Zach's cue to leave. And yet.

He needs to get up and get out of here. He needs to go home and take the hottest shower of his life, scrub his skin until the evidence of this huge mistake is entirely gone. What he doesn't need—the absolute last thing he needs—is to be stuck here, cuddling with Chris, like this actually means something. Meant something.

As if he really can hear the pounding of Zach's heart, Chris stirs against him. He makes a quiet, sleepy sound and burrows deeper into Zach's neck, then slides his hand down to Zach's hip, brushes his thumb across the skin there. Bare skin. God, Zach wishes he had at least put some clothes on before he fell asleep. 

"Mmm, hi," Chris mumbles into Zach's skin. He sounds like he's mostly still asleep, and maybe that will be Zach's saving grace. Maybe he can slip out of here before Chris wakes up completely and they're forced into some painful morning-after dance. 

"Hi," he says, giving Chris's arm a squeeze. "Mind letting me up? I gotta..."

But rather than move, Chris grips him tighter, rubs his nose back and forth against Zach's shoulder. "'Time is it?"

"No clue." Zach is sure his voice is too strained, too high-pitched, but Chris doesn’t seem to notice. "Uh, sorry I'm still here, by the way. I didn't really mean to..."

"Don't apologize," Chris says. He still isn't moving, other than to continue stroking Zach's hip. It should be reassuring, but instead the vice around Zach's lungs only tightens. He needs to get out of this bed now, right now.

With what he hopes sounds like a reluctant groan, he pushes Chris's arm off his chest and starts wiggling away. "Seriously, Chris, I need to take a piss."

Chris lets out a raspy chuckle, but finally he rolls away enough to let Zach up. He makes no move to get up himself though, instead rolling over and following Zach with his eyes as Zach starts to gather his clothes off the floor. Having that gaze on him makes Zach feel somehow even more naked than he already is, so he picks up his things as quickly as he can, grateful that he managed to leave them all more or less in one pile.

"I guess this means you aren't coming back to bed after your bathroom run," Chris says. He's staring at Zach with his hands pillowed under his head, a picture of debauchery and relaxation.

"No, I, uh, I should get out of your hair."

Chris frowns a little at that. "Zach—"

But Zach doesn't hang around to hear what Chris was going to say. He darts into the bathroom with his armful of clothes and shuts the door behind him, locking it for good measure, though he doubts Chris would be so rude as to barge in behind him. Anyway, having a locked door between them does little to dispel Zach's anxiety. His thighs are twinging, muscles sore from last night, and when he takes a deep breath, all he smells is Chris. He should have asked if he could use the shower before he ran off, but he isn't going to poke his head out now. Getting dressed will help, he hopes. He'll feel more like himself then.

First, he goes to the sink and splashes some cold water on his face. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he doesn't expect anything so cliche as to see a different person standing there, but he does feel a renewed surge of shame when he meets his own eyes. It's ridiculous, he tells himself. He has no reason to feel bad about getting this aspect of his virginity out of the way, especially when it was a resoundingly positive experience and with someone he likes and respects, but he can't help but feel like he did something wrong anyway. The tightness in his chest won't go away, and neither will the frown lines around his mouth. 

Pulling on his clothes helps some, but not enough, and too soon he's staring at the bathroom door, dreading stepping through it. What will he do if Chris does try to coax him back to bed? Clearly Zach isn't good at saying no to him.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door, but he is surprised to find himself staring at an empty bed, the comforter kicked off the end, and Chris's clothes still littering the floor. He stands still for a moment, listening, and then hears sounds coming from the kitchen. Cupboard doors opening and shutting, the clink of mugs. Zach winces. He isn't sure what's worse—Chris convincing him to stay for sex or convincing him to stay for coffee. At least sex doesn't involve talking. Not much talking anyway.

"For the record, I'm mad at you for getting me out of bed this early," Chris says when Zach walks into the kitchen. He has, mercifully, pulled on a pair of boxers, but his torso is bare.

"You could have stayed in bed," Zach says. "I really was just going to hit the road."

The clock on the microwave says it's 7:30, which is admittedly earlier than Zach would have wanted to wake up himself after a night like last night. But what can he say? It’s hard to sleep in when you’re in a strange bed. Even harder when you aren’t _used_ to sleeping in strange beds.

"Why the rush?" Chris asks, turning away from the coffee maker to look at him, can of cheap grounds in one hand. "You're not overstaying your welcome, if that's what you think."

"I just—" He flaps his hands awkwardly, trying to come up with a good lie. "I have stuff I need to do later anyway, so—"

"So that's later." That thoughtful little frown is returning to Chris's face, and it makes Zach's heart speed up. Chris sets the can down. "What's up with you anyway? Are you..." He pauses, biting his lip, then soldiers on. "Was last night okay? Because if I did something wrong I'd rather you tell—"

"No!" Zach takes a step forward and starts to put out a reassuring hand, but he stops himself. He shouldn’t touch Chris’s skin right now. "No, you were fine. Good, I mean. Great. It's nothing you...I mean, it's nothing at all. Everything's fine."

"Okay, not buying that at all." Chris is starting to look upset. He wrinkles his nose and scratches self-consciously at one arm. "Look, just because you stayed the night and I'm making coffee doesn't mean this has to be a big deal. It's just, we're friends, and I don't see any reason to kick you out like you're just some guy I met at a club or whatever. This doesn't have to change anything, if that’s what you’re worried about."

But it changes everything; that's the problem. Chris doesn't get it. And how could he? It's not like Zach has been completely honest with him. He should have told Chris last night that it was a big deal for him, that there was no way he would be forgetting any of it. 

Zach doesn't want to be honest with him now either, but he's starting to think it's a choice between telling the truth or coming across like a complete asshole, sabotaging whatever friendship they might still be able to salvage from this. He can't tell Chris he doesn't want this to happen again, because it'll be too obvious it's a lie. He can't pretend everything is fine, because that's an obvious lie too. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing all over again that he'd just left the previous night so they could have avoided all of this.

"I, umm." He stops and presses his fingers into his eyes, trying to stop them from burning, trying to will the embarrassed flush from his cheeks. "I—"

Suddenly, there are fingers encircling his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face, and Chris is there, staring up a him with genuine concern. "What is it, Zach? You can tell me."

God, it's impossible to say no to that face. He looks like he really cares. Really cares. Why does he have to be wonderful at a time like this? Zach threads their fingers together, as much for Chris's comfort as his own, and takes a deep breath. "Last night was..." He trails off, trying to gather his tattered courage. "It was my first time," he says in a rush. "My first time, umm, doing that, at least."

"Oh," Chris says dumbly, frowning in confusion. Then again, with a little more understanding: "Oh."

"I probably should have told you, I know." Zach's panic is returning, or maybe just flaring higher. He babbles. "I just felt so stupid, and I didn't want it to become a whole big thing. I thought if I just went with it, maybe it wouldn't be a big deal, but I guess…I guess maybe I underestimated...."

"Oh," Chris says again, but this time it hits Zach like a knife in the chest, because Chris lets go of him when he says it and takes a step back, putting himself out of reach. "So when you say it's a big deal..."

"Wow, no." Zach shakes his head, realizing how all that must have sounded. "I'm not saying...I don't mean it was a big deal because of you. It's because of me, and my own baggage, and I'm not...I don't expect anything from you."

Chris frowns harder. "I'm not sure I understand."

"It's hard to explain," Zach sighs. Except maybe it isn't that hard, but he feels stupid saying it out loud. Chris is going to think he’s such a freak. "You know I grew up in a devout Catholic family. It was drilled into my head that sex is sacred and meant for marriage, and gay sex is an abomination, and even though I don’t…think I believe any of that anymore, it's been hard for me to get rid of the guilt. But I've been trying. I don't want to feel this way."

"So you thought if you slept with me...what? You'd be cured?" Chris sounds annoyed now, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Fuck, Zach, I thought you were just having trouble with your self-esteem. I didn't realize it was that bad. You should have told me."

"It’s not an easy thing to admit to," Zach snaps, his irritation rising to meet Chris's, “especially when an attractive guy is practically begging you to fuck him.” 

"Well now I feel like I've taken advantage of you!" Color floods into his cheeks, and his hands ball into fists. "I would never have—you didn't even give me the chance to do the right thing, and now you're going to hold it against me?"

"What? No. Who said anything about holding it against you?" This isn't how Zach expected this to go at all. He didn't expect Chris to understand, but he thought that lack of understanding would translate into laughing in his face or pitying him or just kicking him out, telling him they probably shouldn't hang out anymore. He didn't expect Chris to feel like he personally did something wrong. He didn't do anything wrong. This is all on Zach.

"You've been acting like I have leprosy all morning. How is that not holding it against me?"

"Chris, that's not—" He takes a step forward, wanting to touch Chris to reassure him, but Chris gives him a warning look, so he lets his hands drop back to his sides, his shoulders slumping. "You didn't do anything wrong. This is all my fault. I should never have....I can't believe I was so...."

His voice is breaking, his throat closing up as his vision starts to swim. He can't cry now. He won't. Not in front of Chris. He turns away, fingers twisting into his own hair as he tries to get his emotions under control. The situation as it stands feels so hopeless; how will they possibly go back to normal after this conversation? Zach has let too many of his neuroses shine through, and Chris will obviously never look at him the same way. Not to mention the fact that he managed to make Chris feel like some sort of predator when all he was doing was being...normal. Living the kind of free and uninhibited life Zach wishes he was capable of living.

"Hey," Chris says, his voice soft again, his hand landing on Zach's shoulder. "Zach, don't beat yourself up. You clearly do enough of that already." He pauses, then gives Zach's shoulder a squeeze. "Look at me?"

Zach turns back around with a grimace, hoping his eyes don't look too red. 

"I'm just frustrated, okay? I wish I had known," Chris says. "I could have made sure it was more special, or something. I could have at least made sure it was good for you."

"It was good for me, Chris. It was perfect. I wouldn't have wanted you babying me anyway."

Chris's cheeks grow pink, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "You didn't seem like you needed babying. Honestly, if you hadn't told me, I would never have guessed it was your first time."

Even in the midst of his anguish, Zach can't help but feel a little proud of that. He doesn't know the extent of Chris's experience, and he doesn't want to ask, but he can guess that it's pretty extensive, and it's flattering to hear he stacks up okay against the men who came before. No, flattering isn’t the right word. It’s a relief. It assuages some of his fears that Chris would be disappointed, or that he would laugh at Zach’s lack of skill behind his back.

"I was so worried I'd do something wrong and you'd just know," he admits, looking down at his feet.

Chris puts a knuckle under his chin and forces him to meet his eyes again. "You were so fucking good, Zach." The sincerity in his voice sends a shudder down Zach's spine. "I wanted to have you again this morning, before you jumped out of bed like you were on fire."

"God." Zach closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. He wonders if Chris is always like this, so clear about what he wants, so uninhibited about going after it. It's an attractive quality, especially given how horrible Zach has been at reading people in the past. It's nice to be dealing with someone who doesn't play games or blow hot and cold.

"But," Chris says, because of course there's a 'but' here, "I still wish you had told me. I don't want you to think of me in this...this traumatizing light. You have to know, I would never have made a move if I thought you weren't in a good place."

Zach sighs. "I know you wouldn't have. And maybe that's why I didn't tell you, even though I know that's not fair to you. I didn't want to scare you off. No one wants to sleep with a virgin, and I just can't let that stupid word define me forever. I can't. It's just getting worse the older I get."

Chris lets his hand fall to Zach's shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. "You do know that virginity is a social construct, right? And that a lot of gay or bi guys don't even like anal sex? You could have stopped counting yourself a virgin the first time you touched another person's dick."

"Yeah, but." Zach shakes his head, wishing he didn't have to keep revealing new layers of his own fucked-up-ness. "That's another holdover from my religious past, I guess. It's easy to convince yourself you can get off on a technicality. Anything less than penetration doesn't really count. And I know it doesn't really work that way but..." He gestures at his own head. "It's like I can know something logically and it still doesn't really sink in."

"I get that," Chris says. "I do. I think we can all be that way about certain things."

"Maybe." Zach shrugs. The gesture feels stiff. "But you're right. I shouldn't have made you an unwilling participant in the shit-show that is my childhood baggage or trauma or whatever."

"It's fine. I'm just not sure what to do now. You’re upset, and I can't fix it."

Zach wishes he had something to tell Chris here, some reassurance he could give that it will all be okay, but even Chris's hand, still resting innocently on his shoulder, is making him feel squirmy and weird; he wants that touch to stay forever, but he also wants to pull away from it. Despite the churning in his gut, he wants Chris so badly—one night with him wasn't nearly enough—but at the same time he wants to run away as fast as he can, never be alone with him again, do anything in his power to make sure he's never tempted to touch him again.

It's awful, to want something and fear it at the same time. 

"I think I just need to go home and try to decompress for a while," Zach says. "I'll probably feel better after I've had some time to think."

Chris doesn't look like he likes that, and Zach can't blame him. If their positions were reversed, he'd probably be beating himself up right now too. But there isn't anything Chris can do, and Zach needs some space to process. He might not be great at taking care of his mental health even under the best of circumstances, but he knows that what he does now could make or break their friendship. It isn't fair of him to make this Chris's problem.

"I'm sure I'll see you at the Grimy sometime this week," he says, hoping to soften the expression on Chris's face. 

"Yeah," Chris agrees, but his voice sounds a little hollow. "Just call me or something if you want to talk things through, okay? I'd hate for you to feel like you need to shut me out."

Zach nods. "I will." He isn't sure he means it.

The few steps to Chris's front door seems like an impossibly long walk, especially with Chris trailing after him like a puppy who's just been scolded for peeing on the carpet. Zach wonders how this would have gone if he hadn't freaked out. Would they have kissed goodbye at the door? Would Chris have copped one last feel? It certainly would have gone better than this, Zach standing in the open doorway with nothing to say, Chris crossing and uncrossing his arms over his bare chest like he doesn't know what to do with them.

"Seriously," Chris says at last, a plea in his eyes, "you can call me any time."

"Thank you." It comes out of Zach's mouth as a reflex, but as soon as he says it, he realizes he really does feel gratitude to Chris for trying to calm him, for not freaking out more than he did. "I mean that. Thank you. For everything."

Chris grimaces and flaps a hand at him. "Alright, if you're going to get all sappy on me, get out of here," he says, trying to make a joke out of it. Zach does his duty by huffing out a weak laugh.

His stomach is churning again, now that he's about to leave the bubble of Chris's apartment. It takes effort to tear his eyes away from Chris, to turn away and step out into the hall. The door shutting behind him is the loneliest sound he has ever heard.

———

The bright side of his mini-breakdown is that it’s the kick in the pants he needs to make an appointment with his therapist. 

It's a week before he can get in and see her, and he doesn't weather that week easily. He forces himself to head to Grimy HQ only once, and makes excuses not to stay for long or spend any time in one-on-one conversation with Chris. Even though he can’t say he’s proud of his work on So NoTORIous thus far, he is grateful that work fills up most of his time and takes most of his brainpower.

The day of his appointment, he shows up five minutes late with a lump in his throat, certain he is about to be scolded for the bad decisions he has been making lately. But of course this worry, like most of his worries as of late, turns out to be unfounded. Dr. Shore is a warm, motherly type—her calming demeanor is most of the reason Zach picked her in the first place—and when Zach starts relaying his recent struggles to her, starting with how unhappy he has been with the direction of his career as of late and then slipping in the complicated situation with Chris like it’s less of a big deal, she listens without judgment, asking for clarification when she needs it in soft, comforting tones. 

Once he has talked himself out, she asks, "So what is causing you more distress right now? Your career or your romantic life?"

Zach frowns. He should have known she’d guess his rambling about work was mostly a smoke screen.

"Be honest with me," she says.

"My love life," Zach answers, then grimaces, certain that's the wrong answer.

Dr. Shore tilts her head at him. "You seem like you feel guilty about that."

"I guess..." Zach sighs, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. "I guess I feel like that shouldn't be as important to me as it is. Maybe I should just be focusing on my career right now instead of piling more unnecessary problems on my plate."

"Have you considered that you have that backwards?" she asks him. "Have you thought that maybe since you moved to Los Angeles you've been using work as a way to hide from these other issues that are far scarier for you to face?"

That hits a little too close to home. Zach went straight from home to college, straight from college to LA with no space to breathe in between. When his heart told him to go to New York, he instead listened to everyone who said his "vibe" was better suited to LA, because if they were right, that meant he'd get work faster. That meant he wouldn't have much time to sit and stew and self-examine. And for the most part, people _were_ right about him getting work in Hollywood. It might not be good work, he might not yet have found a role he really cares about, but he has kept busy. Hustling to auditions. Doing a one-off episode here or there. Every time he thought the work was about to dry up, something new would pop up. It's been easy for him to focus on chasing that next paycheck to the exclusion of nearly everything else.

"It just seems like it might be harder to work on myself when I don't have confidence that my life is on the right path overall," he says, though he knows Dr. Shore will certainly have a rebuttal for that argument.

She leans forward and peers steadily at him. "Or you might not be able to find the right path because you haven't taken the time to work on yourself first."

It makes sense, when she puts it like that, and yet a part of him instinctively rebels against the wisdom of it. He feels an impulse to shove his fingers in his ears and hum so he can't hear any more. This is what she's here for, to tell him the hard truths, but there was an irrational part of him that hoped she would say it would be fruitless to try to overcome past trauma—because not having to try is a lot less scary. Zach would love it if he could just keep ignoring problems until they go away.

"Well, anyway," he says, his mind fishing for a way to dig himself out of this hole, "I'm not sure this...thing with Chris is helping me work on myself. It just seems to be causing more distress so far."

She hums, tapping her pen in the crook of her elbow. "It sounds to me like it's causing you distress because it's forcing you to confront feelings you've been avoiding for too long."

"Aren't you supposed to tell me that I shouldn't be sleeping with someone when I'm feeling so conflicted?" Zach asks. None of this conversation is going how he expected. He realizes he might have been looking for an easy out, a good excuse to tell Chris to back off since he doesn’t have the willpower to do it for his own sake. "What if it gets too serious? What if I end up getting hurt?"

"That's a risk everyone takes when they choose to open themselves up to another person, Zachary," she says. "You're participating in the human experience, and there's nothing wrong with that. Isolating yourself is far more self-destructive than seeking to connect with someone, even if that connection isn't quite on the level you would hope."

Are those the only two choices? Isolation or imperfect connection? "I’m just not sure if I can ever be satisfied with just having casual sex."

"Is that what you think it is? Casual sex?"

"It's what _he_ thinks it is," Zach says.

Dr. Shore doesn't back down at the vehemence in his tone. Of course she doesn't. "Yes, but how do you see it?"

Zach isn't sure he knows how to answer that. So far, he has been acting partly on impulse, partly on pure lust, and partly... "I guess I'm just trying to feel normal," he says. As soon as the words come out, a knot of emotion works its way up into his throat, making him swallow hard and resist the impulse to rub at his eyes. "I want to be like everyone else and not feel so...so _much_. It seems like most people can just hook up with someone and feel fine about it the next day, but I get this mix of obsession and guilt. I’m hoping if I just fight through those feelings, they'll go away eventually. I'll...become numb, at least."

"Zach." She shakes her head at him. "First of all, not everyone can hook up with someone and have it not mean anything. There's nothing at all wrong with needing sex to have some kind of meaning. You would never tell someone that they should only have sex with someone they are in love with, would you?"

"No," Zach says automatically. He was told that enough throughout his adolescent years, and look at him now. He would never wish this internal conflict on anyone else.

"Well, the reverse is true too. No one can tell you that sex has to be entirely divorced from love, or from emotion. It's up to you to define your own needs with regard to intimacy. There is absolutely no right or wrong way here." She pauses, shakes her head. "No, I take that back. There is a wrong way, and it's seeking numbness. You should never wish for an absence of feeling, Zach. You can work towards healthier feelings, but not feeling anything at all isn't healthy."

"What _should_ I be feeling then?" he asks, desperate for an easy answer.

"I can't tell you that," she says. When she senses Zach's frustration, she holds up a hand to calm him before continuing. "All I can tell you is that I don't think the guilt you're feeling doesn't have much to do with who you are sleeping with. It's the guilt about who you are that you've been conditioned to feel all your life, and it would still be there even if you were certain your feelings with reciprocated. Until you deal with the root of that guilt, it won't go away. And I think that this relationship you have with Chris is helping you begin to deal with it."

"I wouldn't call it a relationship," Zach mutters, for lack of something better to say. He can't deny that everything Dr. Shore is saying rings true. 

"You need to talk to _him_ about that. But I don't know what else to call it when two people who enjoy friendship and mutual respect are also having sex."

This may all be moot. After he freaked out on Chris the last time, Zach doesn't think he should be holding his breath that they'll fall into bed together again, no matter how supportive Chris tried to be in the end. And if they aren't going to have sex again, they don't need to talk about the sex they already had. Zach may be getting off easy after all. He may not have to worry about any of this until the next time he develops an ill-advised crush. 

It isn't like his internalized shame will just go away in the meantime though, and he has no idea what he's supposed to do about that.

He isn't sure he leaves the session feeling any better, but he does come away with plenty to think about and plenty to reconsider--as well as an appointment to see Dr. Shore again next week. The hardest thing about therapy, he thinks, is that it isn't a quick fix. He hates that. He wants to be able to snap his fingers and turn off unhealthy thought patterns, because it's painful to pour out his soul for an hour, and it's even more painful to look inward at the tangled mess that is his brain and try to make sense of it. If there was another way, he would take it in a heartbeat, but instead he needs to be patient and diligent and a hundred other difficult things. 

It sucks, it sucks _so fucking much_ , but he has no choice but to put in the work, to confront his demons. He can’t feel this way forever.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite his therapist’s advice, it’s all too easy for Zach to avoid Chris for the next couple weeks. Even easier when So NoTORIous takes a break for the holidays, and he has an excuse to head home. He feels a little better when, at their last Grimy meeting before they go their separate ways Christmas, Chris shares his plans to take a trip to Aspen with his family. He won’t be around to notice Zach keeping his distance. He’ll be too busy to care if Zach doesn’t call. 

Being back in Pittsburgh does ease Zach’s mind a little. Chris may not be completely out of mind, but it helps to have him out of sight, and Zach finds enough distraction in managing his mother. She prods at him, wanting to know when his new show is going to air, and even when he explains to her several times that the original network refused to pick up the pilot and Tori is shopping around for a new one, she doesn't seem to get it. His career hasn't made sense to her at the best of times, and the politics of it elude her now. She doesn't seem to think Zach is really working unless he is currently _on_ her TV, which doesn’t exactly do wonders for his confidence.

Still, he has had worse Christmases, and there is something refreshing about the snow, the crisp air, the lack of lanky palm trees and people with bad fake tans. Back in LA, it hadn't even felt like winter. Zach never really adjusted to the lack of seasons, and not for the first time he wonders if he really belongs on the west coast. Maybe New York would have been a better choice for him. Maybe he'd be starring in a Broadway play by now.

It doesn't help to wonder about the past though. All he has is the present, which means muddling through this job he has and hoping it'll lead to another, then another, then another.

When he gets back to LA in early January, he feels rested enough to manage a tiny bit of optimism. It can only go up from here, he’s pretty sure.

Except he still doesn’t know how to deal with Chris. They wished each other Merry Christmas via text, but other than that, they haven’t spoken. Zach hasn’t exactly been taking his doctor’s advice about dealing with his problems rather than burying them, but he rationalizes it by telling himself that any conversation he would have with Chris shouldn’t be had over the phone anyway. The week he gets back, he has another appointment with Dr. Shore, and they spend much of it unpacking his childhood experiences with the church, and even though he doesn’t come out of it feeling much changed, he at least feels like he is putting in the work. Which means he doesn’t have to bother calling Chris. Not yet. 

He spends the whole week avoiding the Grimy too, but that weekend, Patrick texts him: _hey, we’re going out tonight. meet us at the apartment at 8?_

It stands to reason that Chris would be coming along too, but it’s still a shock when Zach walks up to the apartment complex and sees him standing outside the front gate with the other guys, passing a cigarette back and forth with Babar. He smiles as Zach approaches, as if everything is normal, but Zach can't quite muster the strength to smile back. He gives a half-hearted wave to the entire group instead.

"Sorry I'm a little late," he says, feeling self-conscious that he's the last one to arrive. The guys are as easy-going as ever though, and they brush off his apology with no more than a little half-hearted razzing.

"We’re just headed to that bar around the corner," Patrick says, pointing vaguely in that direction, and they all start walking in unspoken agreement, Chris and Babar falling to the rear of the group to avoid blowing smoke on the rest of them.

Zach falls into step between Reid and Patrick, and Reid elbows him in the ribs. "Where've you been the last few days, man? You missed Patrick doing a dramatic reading of part of his script."

Patrick snorts at that. "You didn't miss much."

"Sorry," Zach says automatically. "I've been...busy, I guess."

"Work?" Reid asks.

Zach shakes his head. "Not until next week. I just decided I should take some time to run errands and do chores I'd been putting off."

That must be more believable—and suitably boring—because Reid and Patrick don't press him on it any further. Zach asks Patrick how the script is coming, and he is all too happy to launch into his writing woes, and the conversation carries them the rest of the way to the bar. Once or twice along the way, Zach could swear he feels the back of his neck prickle, like Chris is watching him, but he resists the urge to turn around and look or to fall back and talk to him. It's probably best if he keeps his distance tonight, given what happened last time alcohol was involved. And honestly, he's still embarrassed about how they left things. How pathetic Chris must think him.

The bar is an up-and-coming neighborhood joint, small but swanky inside and packed enough that they have to raise their voices to hear each other. Reid takes charge and leads them to a large corner booth where they all pile in. To Zach's dismay, he ends up wedged in in the middle between Chris and Patrick. He can smell the cigarette smoke on Chris's skin, can feel the warmth of his thigh even across the deliberate couple of inches between them.

It's a nice enough place that a waitress actually comes to their table, and Zach does his best not to feel lame ordering wine when the rest of the guys go for beer or dark liquor. Chris orders a scotch, which surprises Zach. He had Chris pegged as a beer guy, but he guesses he should have learned by now not to try to peg him at all. If there's one thing he can expect from Chris at this point, it's to be constantly surprised by him.

Even though they're supposed to be cutting loose, it takes them all reaching the bottom of their first drinks before the atmosphere progresses from subdued to a little more jovial. It takes that much time for them all to confirm that they didn’t find their big break over the holidays and move on to less depressing topics of conversation. Unfortunately, it soon happens that the happier subject they settle on is their romantic lives; Reid and Babar are both in the early stages of relationships, and Patrick has been on a couple dates with someone he met at the gym. It isn't long before Zach feels wholly out of place. 

"Chris, weren't you sort of seeing someone recently?" Babar asks, leaning forward so he can see Chris's face.

Chris clears his throat and scratches his neck, a flush creeping into his cheeks. "Uh, no. Well. You mean that girl I met when I was in Reno? That wasn't really anything. It was just. You know."

Zach is determined not to look at Chris, but he can feel Chris glance at him out of the corner of his eye, like he's checking on his reaction. Fuck. This is exactly the kind of thing Zach wanted to avoid. He doesn’t want Chris thinking he can’t handle knowing that he’s seeing other people—even if it might be a little bit true.

"'It was just, you know'," Babar repeats with a laugh. "A perfect summation of the love life of one Christopher Whitelaw Pine."

Chris shrugs one shoulder, and when he settles again, his arm is brushing Zach's. "Whatever, dude. I see how it is. You've got yourself a girlfriend and now you feel the need to evangelize about monogamy."

"It's not so bad," Reid chimes in. "I'm sure not getting laid any less."

Babar high fives him. Zach wonders if any of them would notice if he slid under the table. But then, as if sensing his discomfort, Babar turns his gaze to Zach and grins, sharklike.

"What about you, man? Anyone special in your life these days?"

At least he frames the question that way. At least he doesn't ask if Zach is 'getting laid.' "No," Zach says, staring down at his wine glass with what he hopes is a neutral expression. "I've been too busy to date much, I guess."

"A man cannot live on work alone," Patrick says sagely. He thwacks Zach on the arm. "You should get out there more, especially since your show is wrapping up soon. It can get to you, worrying about where your next paycheck might come from, and you never know when dating might double as networking in this town."

Zach snorts at that. "I can guarantee that any dating I do won't double as networking."

"What, you think you're in your closet all alone?" Chris says. Zach doesn't think he's imagining the pointed way Chris is looking at him. "Trust me, half of Hollywood would be out of a job if all it took was the wrong person catching you making eyes at another guy over the tangerines at the farmer's market. You’d be surprised how oblivious people can be."

Honestly, Zach has no clue if that's true or not, but Chris certainly sounds like he's speaking from a place of experience. It's been hard enough for Zach to navigate the maze of unwritten rules in Hollywood without worrying about how his sexuality will affect him too, so he just...tries not to think about it at all, pretends it isn't there. Maybe it isn't a good long-term strategy, but it's been working for him so far. For a given definition of 'working', anyway. 

"I'd listen to Chris if I were you," Reid says, lifting his glass in Chris's direction. "He is, after all, the only one of us with a Disney movie under his belt."

That shakes Zach a little, making him frown. It's true that Chris has the most successful career out of all of them so far—and it's also true that he's bi and, from what Zach can tell so far, not at all ashamed of it. He keeps it private, sure, but he keeps just about everything private. He hates paparazzi with a passion that borders on frightening, and every time he has to do any press, he complains about it for days. So if he's saying that it's possible for someone like Zach to have a love life and still have a career, then maybe he's right. It just seems too good to be true to Zach. Maybe he read too much of the history of Old Hollywood when he was in high school, but he still expects that any day now his agent will call him up and pressure him into a fauxmance with an up-and-coming starlet.

Luckily the conversation moves away from Zach's love life—mostly because none of them can pass up the chance to razz Chris over The Princess Diaries—but Zach continues to stew nevertheless. Yet again, he finds himself wishing he could be as cavalier as Chris is about things, unafraid to live his life exactly the way he wants to live it. He knows Chris struggles with insecurities, but somehow they don't seem to hinder him much. Zach doesn't understand it, and can't relate to it, but he desperately wants to.

They drink their way through a second round, then a third. As the night goes on, Zach loosens up more, but he still struggles to feel like he's wholly a part of their conversation. It's one thing to sit in a room with these guys and argue Stanislavski versus Meisner; it's another thing entirely to sit at a bar and try to follow their bro-like banter. Even though they aren't the type of creeps who spend their time rating women's assets or swapping hook-up stories, Zach can't help but feel a little set apart. It must all be in his head, he thinks. He's still spooked from their probing of his love life, or maybe he's just feeling off because over the past hour Chris has managed to inch his way closer to Zach until they are pressed together from shoulder to hip, Chris's knee knocking into his under the table every time he laughs. 

Whatever the case, this isn't exactly the fun and distracting night out that Zach was hoping it would be. They are great friends, and he enjoys their company more than just about anyone else he can think of, but tonight he just can't get himself in the mood. So the next time he finds his glass empty, he clears his throat, pastes on an apologetic smile, and says, "I think I'm going to head out, guys."

He is met with a chorus of groans. "C'mon, man," Patrick says. "The night is still young!"

"I guess." Zach glances at his watch. It's only 11:30, which he supposes is still early by Saturday night standards, but it feels much later. "But I'm wiped. Sorry. This was great, though."

More grumbling, but this time they start shifting to let him out of the booth. Chris gets out ahead of him, then turns to touch Zach's elbow, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "Actually, I'm feeling a little wrung out myself. Why don't I walk back with you?”

"Aww, look at these two grandpas," Babar says. "Can't believe you're both going to wuss out on us."

Zach isn't sure he _wants_ Chris to leave with him. Then again, now that the offer is on the table, he catches himself almost reaching for Chris's wrist to make sure he won't change his mind. It's probably too much temptation, too many possibilities, but Zach's inhibitions are lowered, and now that he's thinking about it, he misses Chris. Misses their long conversations. Misses having his attention all to himself. It was probably stupid to avoid him. It makes his yearning seem insurmountable now.

"You guys have fun," Chris is saying, rapping his knuckles on the table. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

And then his hand is on the back of Zach's neck, giving it a companionable squeeze, and Zach barely remembers to toss a wave and a last goodbye over his shoulder before they walk out of the bar together.

The night has grown chilly, but it feels good on Zach's skin, which is overheated from the alcohol and hours spent pressed between two warm bodies. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck, and he runs a self-conscious hand through his hair to make sure it isn't sticking to his forehead. The ambient light of the city makes it impossible to see any stars, but he looks up at the dark sky anyway, squints at it, anything to avoid looking over at Chris, who has fallen into step beside him, way too close. Their hands brush every few steps.

"Sorry if I'm, uh," Chris says after a few long minutes of silence, "if I'm intruding. I just thought you might...want to talk, I guess."

Zach doesn't want to talk, actually. Or maybe he does, and he’s too fucking scared. He can’t tell the difference anymore. Nevertheless, he chews on his bottom lip for a moment and then opens his mouth to admit, "I’ve been to see my old therapist a couple times."

"Good!" Chris says, immediately and easily, as if Zach just told him he's landed a new job. A good one. "That's great. I'm glad to hear it."

"Thanks." Zach reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, at the place where Chris's hand was resting not so long ago. The sidewalk is surprisingly empty for this time of night on a weekend, only a few small groups of people stumbling their way from one bar to the next, laughing and talking too loud as they go. He and Chris weave through them easily, and in between they have the illusion of privacy. A dangerous illusion.

"I see one too, you know," Chris says. "A therapist, I mean."

Zach glances over at him, then away again, determined to give him space to share only as much as he wants to. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. For anxiety."

It takes a good amount of restraint for Zach to hide his surprise at that. From his perspective, Chris has always seemed so steady, so easy-going. Every now and then he’ll hint at some self-esteem issues, held over from his rough teenage years, but aren’t everyone’s teenage years rough? Zach never took him seriously; Chris is too golden in his eyes. "You've never seemed like an anxious person to me," he says.

Chris shoots him a rueful grin. “Trust me. I spend most of my time worrying about one thing or another. Whether I'm good enough or smart enough or doing the right things or on the right path. I just..." He makes a helpless gesture. "I think too much."

"I can relate to that," Zach says, frowning down at his feet.

"Mmm. That's one thing the good doctor keeps telling me," Chris says with a self-deprecating laugh. "I’m not special. Most people are too caught up in their own problems to be analyzing every little thing _I_ do."

Zach spends plenty of time analyzing Chris—more time than he should—but he figures it would be a bad idea to say as much. Instead, he hums in understanding. "It's hard to convince yourself that you've been thinking about things the wrong way all your life."

He must have sounded too serious, because when Chris looks over and meets his gaze, his expression is almost sad, a little too pitying for Zach's tastes. Or maybe Zach is imagining the pity. He isn't exactly thinking straight right now.

The buzz he has going isn't as bad as the one he had the night of the party where he and Chris first hooked up, but it's a near thing. The night air is sobering him up some, but not enough to keep his thoughts from sticking too easily on the occasional brush of Chris's knuckles against his, Chris's profile thrown in relief by streetlights and headlights, the mix of smoke and scotch and cologne that Zach catches on the breeze every few steps. It's also easy—or at least easier than normal—to let himself question his usual patterns of thinking, the ones that urge him to ignore the sparks of heat in his gut and his desire to reach out and twine his fingers with Chris's. Would Chris let him? Could he get away with it by feigning drunk handsiness? 

It doesn't matter. A couple more blocks go by, and he still hasn't mustered the courage.

"We're good though, right?" Chris asks when they've almost reached Zach's apartment. It sounds like he's been wanting to ask that for a while, but maybe he was afraid of the answer. What a silly thing to be afraid of. 

"Of course we're good." Zach does reach for his hand then, but only to touch the back of it, a quick reassurance. He sighs. "I'm sorry I’ve been…distant. I just don't really know what I'm doing. Like, in general."

"Who does?" Chris says, forcing a grin.

They reach Zach's building and come to an awkward stop. Zach gets out his keys and starts to fiddle. Chris looks up at Zach's dark window, looks out into the street, shoves his hands into his back pockets and rocks up onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels. He is working himself up to something, Zach can tell. Something Zach probably doesn't want to hear. Zach is tired, suddenly, of what his relationship with Chris is turning into, just one more thing to feel ashamed of. It’s hard to maintain that shame when Chris is looking at him so plaintively, like he wishes he had the right words for the moment. Chris shouldn’t _have_ to come up with the right words now. Zach should never have put him in this situation to begin with. 

"Do you want to come up?" he asks in a rush. 

Chris's eyes widen in an almost comical display of shock. "What?"

"Come up," Zach says, trying to sound more sure of himself this time. "We can have another drink, or..."

"Or?" Chris repeats, incredulous. "Are you sure you want me to?"

By way of answer, Zach reaches out and encircles Chris's wrist, fingers pressing against the underside as if to check his pulse. His skin is so warm there, so soft. Zach wants to put his mouth on it. He shouldn’t, he thinks. But then again, _why not_?

"Please," he says.

They make it up the stairs and into the apartment before Zach starts to second-guess himself, and even though his instincts tell him to pump the brakes, he presses Chris against the wall next to the door and kisses him, ignoring Noah, who comes to investigate who Zach has brought home. Chris reaches a hand down to stroke Noah's ears, even as he opens up for Zach's tongue, and it should be comical, but it just makes Zach kiss him harder, overwhelmed with affection. Noah realizes no one is free to socialize with him at the moment, and wisely trots away to lie down again. 

"Did you think about us?" Zach asks when he forces himself to break away, mouthing along Chris's jaw instead. "Did you think about the last time we were together?"

It isn't idle talk. He needs to know. _Needs_ to.

"All the time," Chris gasps. He takes one of Zach's hands and drags it down, pressing it to the front of his jeans so Zach can feel how he's already hard, just like that. Just from a little kissing. Fuck. "I want to..." Chris trails off, his head thunking back against the wall and his eyes squeezing shut. It takes some effort for Zach not to make a dive for his neck, but he needs to hear the end of the sentence first. He gets a feeling it's important. "I want whatever you want" Chris says, opening his eyes again and catching Zach's gaze. "Whatever you want to try. It's okay if you haven't done it before, or you're worried, or—we can just...anything you want, okay?"

Zach shudders hard, head to toe, and leans in to bury his face in the crook of Chris's neck. He needs a minute. He may need several minutes. 

"Or we don't have to do anything," Chris says, threading his fingers into Zach's hair. "We can just have that drink. I just thought maybe...if I'm someone you can trust...if it's easier with me, then..."

This isn't what Zach wants to hear, beautiful as it is. It makes him feel like a charity case again. "What do _you_ want?"

"Zach." Chris's fingers glide down the side of his face to his chin, urging him to straighten up and look at him again. "I just want you to feel good."

Zach sucks in a sharp breath. "What if I can't?"

Chris grips his chin harder, pressing his thumb against his bottom lip. "You can. You will." He pulls Zach in for a kiss, fast and hard. "Tell me what you think about. What you've always wanted but wouldn't let yourself have."

The problem is, all Zach's fantasies growing up were painfully vanilla by most standards. He thought about things like what it would be like to have sex in the rain, or on the kitchen counter with breakfast forgotten and burning in the pan, or under the bleachers at a crowded stadium with no one the wiser. He thought about bringing someone home to his mom's house and having her welcome them with open arms, let them sleep in the guest bedroom together, where they'd have to have quiet sex in the middle of the night so as not to wake her. When you're denying yourself so much, even the most innocuous things seem illicit. His mind never got a chance to move on to the kinky. 

There is one basic thing he still hasn't tried though. One low-level hurdle to jump. "Wanna taste you," he says through gritted teeth. "Can I?"

"You've never...?" Chris asks. Zach just shakes his head, and Chris chuckles, nodding. "Yeah, yes, of course."

Zach hits the ground a little too hard, and his knees protest, but he is too busy getting Chris's jeans open to care. Now that he's down here, face to face with the bulge in Chris's briefs, he remembers how big Chris is, and it's a miracle he doesn't lose his nerve right then. He has to at least try, he tells himself. Chris won't be upset if he can't finish him off. That is one thing he's sure of in all of this: Chris can be trusted, Chris won't hold anything against him.

"Take...take your time," Chris says shakily, but that just bolsters Zach's courage. He shoves Chris's jeans and underwear down to his knees, then wraps his fingers around the base of Chris's cock, leans in, and licks him, slowly, just over the tip where he can see moisture beading. The taste is new, bitter and salty, and yet something about knowing who he's with and what he's doing sends a thrill through him, making him want to taste again—and again—and again. 

When he swirls his tongue over the head a fourth time, Chris changes his tune, his hips bucking forward so Zach has to pull back a little. "God, Zach, don't _tease_ ," he says breathlessly. Zach laughs at that—a genuine, delighted laugh, his nerves temporarily forgotten—and finally takes Chris into his mouth.

Everything melts into a blur of sensation after that—the taste of Chris's skin, the way Zach's mouth stretches around him, the sounds he makes, the sting of his fingers tugging at Zach's hair. It takes concentration for Zach to move his hand and his mouth together and keep a handle on his gag reflex and be mindful of his teeth and give his jaw a break, but when he manages to get it all just right for a few strokes and Chris groans out his name, it's exhilarating. Funny, he thinks, how much power a person can have like this, on their knees. Even once his neck starts to get sore, he doesn't want to stop, because Chris sounds amazing, and when Zach glances up at him, he looks completely undone, his head thrown back, his mouth wide and panting. Zach wants to keep going until he comes apart completely, even if it takes all night.

He runs the fingers of his free hand up the back of Chris's thigh, digs them into the meat of his ass, and Chris moans at that. "Fuck, Zach," he says, and Zach gets too excited for a moment, takes him too deep and gags a little. Chris makes a choked, vaguely concerned noise and tries to pull away, but Zach holds him in place while he regains his composure. He can handle this. Really, he can. Chris is large enough to stretch Zach's mouth, to make him feel almost uncomfortably full, but he likes it. _Loves_ it, even, because it keeps him from thinking of anything else. He wants to hold on to this peace for as long as he can.

Which is why, when Chris paws at his ear and then his hair, trying to back him off, he ignores it. "Zach, you have to—" Chris pants. "Don't want to come yet. Get up here. Get—"

Zach hums and sucks harder, moves his hand faster, and it isn't long before Chris lets out a broken curse and spends himself across Zach's tongue in a hot flood. Zach hadn't given any thought to what he would do in this moment, but reflex takes over and he swallows it all down as best he can, using his tongue to chase what little manages to trickle past his lips. If he chokes a little in his eagerness to get it all, Chris doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy gasping and scraping his nails along Zach's scalp, his hips jerking minutely as he struggles to stay pressed to the wall.

"Jesus," he breathes. When Zach looks up at him, he's staring back with awe in his eyes. "You didn't have to....fuck, come here."

This time Zach allows himself to be yanked to his feet, and he makes no protest when Chris surges forward and licks into his mouth, seemingly unfazed by the taste of himself on Zach's tongue. It feels good to kiss Chris after all that, with his lips still tingling and his jaw aching. He loves that he can feel Chris trembling slightly under his hands, and that he is still struggling to catch his breath.

"C'mon," Chris says after a minute, taking Zach by the wrist and pulling him down the hall. "Bed."

"What—?"

"You're gonna fuck me now."

Chris's tone allows for no argument, but Zach has no desire to argue anyway. He expected maybe a quick handjob as reciprocation—it wouldn't take long—or, if he was lucky, maybe Chris would blow him in turn, but the idea of being inside Chris again...even taking into account his panic from last time, he can't refuse this. 

To his embarrassment, he has none of the necessary supplies, but Chris, ever the boy scout, comes through, pressing a condom and packet of lube into his hand as they fall down to the sheets together. Even though Chris has already come, he seems frantic, chastising Zach for fingering him open too carefully, begging him for more when Zach fears he may not yet be ready for it.

"I won't break, Zach," Chris says, digging his nails into Zach's shoulders. "Loosen up. Just...let yourself go. I'll let you know if it's too much."

Let himself go? He isn't sure he's capable of that. It's easier when he's focused on making Chris feel good rather than just chasing his own pleasure. But Chris is grabbing him by the cock and and lining him up, hooking a leg around Zach's hips to urge him forward, and Zach's mind goes hazy as he ruts forward, pushing inside and burying himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust that punches the breath out of his lungs and makes Chris shout.

"I'm good," Chris says once he has his breath back enough to speak. "I'm good, I'm good, come on, fuck me, fuck—"

Zach does. Because maybe he was lying to himself when he thought all his fantasies were vanilla. Maybe he forgot or repressed the part of him that wondered what it would be like to do exactly _this_ —make the headboard crack against the wall, make Chris hold onto him for dear life, bite at his lips, his shoulder, make him sweat and writhe and then—impossibly—come again, his dick twitching feebly against his stomach.

When Zach's own orgasm hits him, it's so intense, so fucking good, it almost hurts. He tries to drag it out, keeps fucking into Chris until he feels raw and oversensitive, and even then he can't pull out, only slide in deep and stay there as he collapses onto Chris, nipping at his jaw on the way down.

"Knew you had that in you," Chris says, one part cheeky and two parts exhausted. That's strange, Zach thinks, because he's not sure he knew himself.

"Are you ok—"

"I'm fucking fantastic, Zach," Chris says with a laugh. "Please, God, tell me we can do that again." 

_Please, God._ Just a figure of speech, but Zach can't help the way it makes his shoulders go tense. Chris must notice, because his fingers stroke gently through Zach's hair before his hand comes to rest, warm and comforting, on the back of Zach's neck. "Or not," he says quietly. "That's okay too. Whatever you want."

"I want to do it again," Zach says. He can’t pretend otherwise, not even to himself. "I just…need you to be patient with me."

Chris blows out a long breath. "Okay. I'll just follow your lead, alright?" He runs his fingernails over the knobs of Zach's spine and is silent for a while, his chest still rising and falling a little too quickly. "I'm no therapist,” he says at last, “and I'm certainly no priest, but it can't be good for you, can it? To deny yourself."

No, it isn't good for him. That much is obvious. But he has no idea what _would_ be good for him. All the options laid out in front of him seem impossible. Maybe he doesn't get to have good things.

Except this feels like a good thing, laying here on Chris's chest with Chris's heartbeat in his ear, Chris's fingers tracing patterns on his skin.

"You want me to go or stay?" Chris asks, his breath ruffling Zach's hair.

"Stay," Zach says. "Come shower with me."

So they drag themselves out of bed and into Zach's bathroom, into the shower that is barely big enough to fit them both. They take turns under the spray, Zach struggling to suppress a shy smile every time he meets Chris's eyes, struggling not to reel him in for a kiss every time they switch positions. Zach realizes halfway through that this is the first time he has showered with another person—community showers in gym class don't count, as traumatizing as they were—and even though it's such a small thing, it fills him with a strange sort of joy. _Joy_ , not shame. That seems like a miracle.

After they dry off, Chris stumbles back to bed, and Zach goes to run Noah downstairs for a quick potty break. He comes back to the bedroom with a glass of water in each hand, and Chris smiles at him when he places one of them on the nightstand next to him. "Just in case," he says quietly.

When Zach climbs into bed, Chris doesn't roll over to cuddle, doesn't pull Zach toward him, but he does reach out and run his thumb against the grain of Zach's stubble and whisper a sleepy goodnight across the darkness between them. It isn't much, but somehow it's enough. Enough that when Zach closes his eyes, his mind stays quiet, and he drifts off to sleep with no trouble at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the delay, friends. It's been much harder to find time to write than I thought it would be. I still have every intention of finishing this, and I know how it ends. I just thank you for your patience in the meantime. <33

"Do your parents know that you're...you know," Zach asks as they are laying in bed the next morning. When he woke, Zach made to get out of bed and gather his clothes, just like last time, but Chris tugged him back and kissed him and slid his hand between Zach's thighs, then tugged Zach's hand between his. Now they are coming down from their mutual high, lying on their backs with their fingers casually twined together, as if this is something they do every day. 

"You just had your hand on my dick and you can't even say the word 'bisexual', Zach?" Chris asks. He is only teasing, no malice in his voice, but Zach feels a stab of guilt anyway.

"Sorry.” He tries again: “Do your parents know you're bi?"

Chris gives his hand a little squeeze, as if to reward the correction. "Yeah, they've known almost as long as I've known,” he says. “When I was young and confused, my mom was the only person I could think to talk to. She's the one who told me there's nothing wrong with liking both men and women. She told me I didn't have to pick one. I probably would have spent years wrestling with myself if it weren't for her." Even without looking, Zach can hear the frown creep into his voice. "I know I'm lucky compared to most people. I almost feel...guilty for it sometimes. Like I haven't paid my dues."

Zach doesn't know what to say to that, because even though it's petty of him, he can't help the stab of jealousy he feels. What he wouldn't have given to be able to talk to his own mother about his sexuality during his fragile teen years. Or even now. It isn't Chris's fault, but it doesn't feel fair. Life in general feels so unfair lately.

"What about your dad?" Zach asks.

"He was supportive too," Chris says. "It took me a little longer to tell him, but when I did—this sounds so lame, but when I did, he took me out to dinner, to my favorite burger place, like it was something worth celebrating. I don't think he really knew what he was supposed to do, but I guess that's about as good a reaction as anyone could hope for."

Zach swallows hard. It takes some effort not to pull his hand away. "I sometimes wonder how my dad would have reacted, but it's hard to imagine it would have been good. He was very...Italian. A real man's man, you know? I think the best case is that he wouldn't have known how to react at all."

"You never know," Chris says, a little tentatively. "Sometimes people are surprising. Maybe he would have understood."

"Maybe," Zach says, even though he doubts it's true. He can still appreciate Chris's attempts to comfort him.

Chris rolls onto his side and flings his arm casually onto Zach's chest, his fingers tangling in the hair there. "You know, you don't give yourself enough credit. It had to be tough to go through the things you've gone through without the support of your family, but you've managed to keep putting one foot in front of the other. You chased your dreams. You're doing well for yourself." Zach makes a sound of protest, but Chris tuts at him. "I just mean, overall, you've just been incredibly resilient, and I think that's admirable."

"Yeah, well. Thanks, but I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to be resilient," Zach says. He’s aware he sounds petulant, but it’s early and his guard is down, helped along by Chris’s thumb stroking along his own. He can’t pretend to be noble or brave when he has never felt like either of those are virtues he possesses.

They are silent for a while, Chris idly petting at Zach's chest. When Zach glances at him, he looks pensive. "Do you still believe in God?" he asks.

Zach shuts his eyes and lets out a long sigh. This doesn’t seem like an appropriate venue for this conversation, but he resists the urge to get up and run. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably."

"And you think he would care about whether you fall in love with a man instead of a woman?"

It seems unfair, the incredulity in Chris’s voice, like he’s asking Zach to answer for this bit of law he didn’t make up, never wanted to begin with. "Religious people seem to be pretty much in agreement on that fact, yeah."

Chris huffs. "Well, I may not know much about religion, but I'm pretty sure if there is a God, people don't get to decide what it is he thinks by popular vote."

A laugh bubbles up out of Zach's throat before he can stop it. He can't deny the logic there. “Sure, but there's the Bible for that, I guess."

"Mmm, yeah, the book people cherry pick whatever they want out of." Zach shoots him a sharp look, but he flaps a hand, unconcerned. "Look, I was an English major. If there's one thing I know, it's how to analyze a book. And I know if you pick a random line out of context, you aren't going to really understand what the author was going for. You have to take the thing as a whole. Otherwise you end up thinking Mr. Darcy was an unmitigated jackass, or Frankenstein made an exciting scientific breakthrough, or it would be awesome if we could all get our hands on some of that _soma_ from _Brave New World_."

"I don't know. There are definitely times when I could go for some _soma_ ," Zach jokes, trying to deflect.

Chris gives him a playful smack on the stomach. "You get what I'm saying, though." His hand remains where it landed, his fingers stroking Zach’s skin. “I guess my opinion doesn’t count for much, but…you’re a good person, Zach. Everyone who knows you can see that, and if there is a God, I’m pretty sure he can see it too. I hate to think that you’re laying there beating yourself up.”

All of a sudden, Zach’s eyes are burning, and he lets them slip shut to hide it, hoping he merely looks tired or contemplative. "I’m not," he says quietly, and, incredibly, it’s the truth. He doesn’t know whether Chris is right, or whether he still believes the things he believed as a scared child, but for now, his mind is quiet enough that he can enjoy the way Chris is touching him, full of post-coital affection, without guilt twisting in his gut. 

Anyway, it does make sense, what Chris said, but that doesn’t mean Zach can just snap his fingers and believe it, internalize it. Years of faith can't be reversed in a single conversation. For now, he’ll settle for these small moments of peace.

Pasting on a smile, he opens his eyes again, rolls to face Chris, and pulls him into a quick kiss, a shameless ploy to distract him. "This is too serious a conversation for before breakfast," he says when they break apart. "I need coffee and a bagel. You coming?"

Zach is lucky that it's possible to derail any of Chris's thought processes with the promise food. "Of course," Chris says, already throwing the sheets back before the words are out of his mouth. 

And when Zach cuts his eyes away from Chris's naked form, blushing like they haven't slept together multiple times already, Chris doesn't even notice.

———

Somehow, Zach makes it through the next couple months without losing his mind.

The first season of So NoTORIous wends its way to a close, but the mood of the last days of filming is far from jubilant. Even though VH1 has agreed to put them on the air, none of them, not even Tori herself, are certain what the future holds. It would be a small miracle if a show that got dropped by its original network and picked up by a fledgling one was granted a second season. At the wrap party, everyone bites their tongue against the obvious: they probably won’t be reconvening later in the year. They’ll all need to hustle come audition time. Zach doesn’t want to think about that, so he buries it, just like he buries everything else.

Just like he buries his feelings for Chris every time he falls into bed with him—which happens far more often than he intended. Whenever he sees Chris, he thinks about what Dr. Shore said—about how he should talk to Chris, about his feelings and their sort-of relationship and what it all means—but before he can open his mouth to do just that, he imagines Chris laughing at him, rejecting him in the worst way, and he resigns himself to silence. 

Zach has nothing to do with himself, no work to lose himself in, so it’s easy to let Chris take up the majority of his time. And it doesn’t help that Chris seems to be in a similar situation. They still meet up with the other guys at the Grimy a few times a week, but more often than not they leave together, headed back to one of their apartments to spend hours in bed. Zach feels like he is making up for lost time, using Chris as a stand-in for years of missed opportunities and pent-up longing. At night he lays awake and dreams up things they haven’t tried yet. They check things off that list one by one—against the wall, in the shower, Chris undulating in his lap, Chris’s wrists lashed to the headboard—and no matter what Zach asks, Chris is always on board, even eager. It’s easier when Zach can focus on the act itself, the mechanics of it, instead of the fact that it’s Chris he’s doing it with. It’s easier to see it as a game.

The quiet voice in the back of his mind that tells him this isn’t what he wants goes silent if he kisses Chris hard enough, squeezes his eyes shut and uses his body like a tool. 

He does, however, have a one moment of weakness. They are cuddled up on Chris's couch, the TV on in the background, though neither of them have been paying attention to it, preferring to spend their time pawing at each other. Chris has just shoved his hand down Zach's pants when Zach’s mouth runs away with him and he asks, "Are you sleeping with anyone else?" 

His timing is awful, but the answer isn't what he expects.

"Uhh, no," Chris says slowly, redness flooding his cheeks. Just as slowly, he withdraws his hand and puts a little distance between them, though not so much distance as to make Zach worry. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Zach asks. 

"I'm haven’t been feeling up to it lately.” Chris lifts one shoulder, a shrug that comes across less nonchalant than he probably means it to be. His face is so red now, his skin must be hot to the touch. “I'm tired of having the same conversation every time I meet someone new, you know?” When Zach gives no indication that he knows, Chris barrels on. “I say I'm an actor, they ask if they've seen me in anything, and 'probably not' is never a good enough answer. Then if I do give them my resume, I have to endure the fucking apologies, as if I'm going to be personally offended that they haven't seen my episode of CSI or whatever. It's exhausting. I'm sure if I was an accountant, people wouldn't ask me to prove I'm a good one, or apologize if they don't hire me to do their taxes. It's like my job is the only thing about me that anyone cares about, and I'm not even good at it."

"But you _are_ good at it," Zach says, incredulity raising the pitch of his voice.

Chris waves the compliment away. "Not in any measurable way. Not yet, at least." He rakes his fingers through his hair, then picks at the seam of the sofa cushion. "Anyway, the point is, I don’t really feel like jumping through all those hoops lately. I’m content to stick with the familiar."

‘Familiar' might not be the sexiest of descriptors, but Zach will take it. He can at least find comfort in the fact that Chris isn't currently sleeping his way from one end of WeHo to the next, which is certainly what Zach would be doing if he were Chris—if he had a face like Chris’s, had his confidence in his own sexuality. Thank heaven for small miracles. Then again, he guesses heaven isn’t really the place to be thanking.

"Oh shit," Chris says suddenly, sitting up straighter.

Zach frowns in confusion. "What?"

"We should have had this conversation sooner.” He grimaces. “I'm sorry."

"Umm, what?" Zach repeats.

"I know we've been good about using condoms and stuff, but still, it's smart to know if the person you're sleeping with is sleeping around a lot. Or if they've been tested."

"I don't…uh…" Zach stammers. That hadn’t been on his mind at all—not even close. But maybe it should have been. Maybe it would have been, if he weren’t so wet behind the ears. "I haven't..."

“I usually go once a quarter, and I’ve always been clean, just so you know. But I should probably go again soon.” He tilts his head, his seriousness dissolving into a grin. “We can go together.”

That’s how Zach finds himself at a walk-in clinic a few days later, getting swabbed and eyeballed by a long-suffering nurse, feeling so ridiculous he wants to curl into a ball and die. Chris is right—this is something he should get in the habit of doing, and something he should make sure his partners are doing—but the stark white exam room, the paper crinkling underneath him, the astringent hospital smell…it make his skin crawl. It reminds him that what he’s doing with Chris isn’t the warm, familiar, soul-affirming act that his mother and the Church wanted him to wait for. It’s something more detached. Clinical, in a way, but messy too. And getting messier all the time.

When they get their results, they open them together, and even though Zach isn’t worried, his stomach turns somersaults. He wonders if this ever gets easier, or if everyone else just fakes their way past this feeling—this shameful, stupid, why-am-I-doing-this-if-it’s-so-dangerous feeling. But afterward, in the bedroom, Chris bats Zach’s hand away when he reaches for the drawer with the condoms. He says, “maybe we shouldn’t make a habit of this, but just for tonight…” And then Zach understands again. A few measly tests every so often is a small price to pay. Being with Chris like this—it’s better than Zach could ever have hoped for, better than anything he’s felt in his life. It’s not just the sensation of Chris hot and tight and perfect around him; it’s the look on his face, the way his fingers dig into the small of Zach’s back, the way his thighs grasp at Zach’s hips. It’s all of it, every little thing that Chris is choosing to give him. _Him_ , of all people.

It isn’t until days later that he realizes Chris never asked him the same question in return, the question that started all this: whether he was seeing anyone else. It’s either humiliating—Chris doesn’t think Zach could pull anyone else—or disheartening—Chris doesn’t care who else Zach spends his time with—and Zach doesn’t want to know which, so he doesn’t bother to ask. Add it to the list of things he isn’t talking to Chris about nowadays. Better to just assume the worst than know for sure.

The bland LA winter eventually fades into a mild, sweet-smelling spring, and Zach can hardly account for where the time has gone. Mostly wiling away the hours, trying to keep his mind off how his agent never calls and his bank account is dwindling. Long afternoons spent at Grimy Corp HQ, stretched out in a patch of sunlight on the floor, watching the other guys go over material for auditions. And long nights spent in Chris’s bed, rolling around beneath the sheets like they’re on borrowed time—and maybe they are. Nothing ever lasts in this town. 

That fact is made all the more apparent when one day Zach shows up to Grimy Corp HQ to find utter chaos—Babar and Reid and Patrick all talking at once, shouting over each other, while Chris sits there blushing and rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"What is this, dynasty building?" Reid is saying, shaking his head like something has disappointed him. "Do all of you multigenerational Hollywood families have to inbreed?"

"Who said anything about breeding?" Chris asks, wrinkling his nose. "Anyway, like I _told_ you, it's not—"

"You didn't have any say in this at all?" Patrick asks. As Zach gets closer, headed for the seat next to him on the couch, he sees that the poor guy looks a little queasy. Whatever it is they're talking about, it doesn't seem pleasant.

"What's going on?" Zach asks, stripping off his jacket.

"Chris is officially part of the machine," Babar says. He has an expression on his face like he smells something rotten.

Zach looks back and forth between them, searching for clues. "He's...what?"

Chris lets out a deep, weary sigh and turns toward Zach but doesn't quite look at him, instead focusing somewhere around his collarbone. "My, uh, publicist set me up with a date to the _Just My Luck_ premiere next week. Sorel Carradine."

"Set you...set you _up_?" Zach repeats, his voice rising to an almost embarrassing pitch. He isn't naive. He knows that this kind of thing happens all the time in Hollywood, romances orchestrated—or at least played up—for the publicity. He just didn't expect it to happen to someone like Chris. Not yet. Not _now_. "So it's like completely for show, or...?"

"Not completely, I guess. Someone introduced us a little while back, and we hit it off, and I guess my team just thinks it's a good idea for me to show up at the premiere with someone on my arm."

"Gotta establish that het cred," Reid says with utmost disdain. Zach can relate.

"Trust me, I'm not fucking _happy_ about it," Chris says. "It could be worse though. At least I actually like her."

Babar scoffs. "It's bullshit. You shouldn't have to parade around some Hollywood princess just to raise your own profile."

"Give him a break," Patrick cuts in. "If you showed up to some event with your own girlfriend, it'd be good for you too. Fans just like to see their leading men in relationships. Who cares?"

"Plus, it keeps people from asking me if I'm seeing anyone in every fucking interview," Chris says. "I'm so tired of ducking that question."

"Why duck it?" Zach asks.

"Because it's no one's fucking business, that's why," Chris snaps. Then, as if he's just realized how harsh that sounds, he deflates, his shoulders slumping. "Sorry.” He doesn’t look at Zach when he says it, staring down at his shoes instead. “I just mean...I'm tired of that being the thing everyone focuses on. I'd rather tell a white lie and shut them up then have to keep justifying my singleness."

Zach runs a hand through his hair and slumps against the back of the couch, his mind churning. Chris told him that he wasn’t seeing anyone, that dating is too hard. He says he actually likes Sorel, that they already know each other, so how fake _is_ this exactly? And God, this is just the beginning, isn't it? This one fake romance may generate the buzz it takes to land Chris an even better job, which may land him an even higher-profile fake romance, and so on and so forth ad nauseum. It seems crazy to Zach, the hoops a person has to jump through just to do their job. 

A scarier thought: he can't imagine himself doing something like this. Just imagining it makes him feel queasy. As much as he's struggled lately with his sexuality, he knows he would struggle even more if he tried to deny it altogether, if he tried to turn his entire public persona into a lie. Not that Chris is totally a liar, since he actually likes women, but...would he have even considered going to this premiere with Zach on his arm? Not for one single second, Zach is sure. 

But if Zach would never pretend like this, maybe that means he's doomed to fail in this business. It's never just about acting ability; it's about who you schmooze with, how people perceive you, and whether the people at the top think they can sell you in a role. Zach could never play opposite Lindsay Lohan or Anne Hathaway. People take one look at him and think either quirky, probably-gay BFF or, if he's lucky, villain. This is his reality. He can't change it.

"Wow," he says absently, and only after he feels several pairs of eyes on him does he realize he lost the thread of the conversation and managed to interrupt it. He gives an apologetic shrug. "It's just one thing to know this kind of thing happens and another thing entirely to have it happen this close to home. I can't imagine ever being in this position." He meets Chris's eyes. "Sorry, man."

Chris's gaze goes soft and understanding, and it makes Zach stomach flip. He hates that he's so transparent that Chris probably picked up on his real worry right away.

"I'm just listening to what my people tell me," Chris says. "I'm sure this isn't the only route to getting the roles you want, so I wouldn't worry about it too much. If your agent ever suggests something similar, you can tell them to fuck off."

"Maybe." Zach shrugs again. "Hopefully."

The silence that follows is awkward, and Zach wishes he could get up and walk out of the apartment again. Or make everyone but Chris disappear so they can really talk about this and what it means for them. No pictures of them together have shown up in any tabloids, despite numerous coffee outings and walks to each other's apartments, but someday, eventually, people are going to figure out how much time they spend together, and what then? Will Chris need to distance himself from Zach so he doesn't get gay cooties all over his carefully cultivated image?

"Well," Babar says, slapping his hands on his thighs and jolting them all out of their respective thoughts. "Given how thoroughly, depressingly Hollywood this conversation has been, I think it's time to switch gears and do a little Willy Shakes, huh?" He gets up and goes to the bookcase and picks out a thin booklet, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. "Shall we?"

It's a good idea. They all pick parts and read through it together, and it reminds Zach of his high school English classes, except with considerably more talent. They laugh with each other, high-five each other for good line delivery, and soon it seems like all have forgotten about Chris's publicity date. Even Zach manages to forget for a little while, though that may have something to do with how smitten he is with Chris's version of Puck. He wonders if Chris will ever play a character, even in passing, that he _doesn't_ become smitten with.

He should be guarding his heart better, he thinks. Especially in light of this new revelation. But at least for now, adoring Chris is easier than thinking about how he'll feel next week when he sees pictures of Chris with his arm around the waist of a beautiful blonde, pulling her close for the sake of the cameras, maybe taking her home with him at the end of the night just because he can, just to make himself feel better about a night of half-truths.

When Chris is acting, he invites his audience into a different world, and Zach is happy to live in that world and forget about the real one for as long as he can.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the wait, guys. Life has been....well, I'm sure you can guess. I swear to you I will finish this story, but it's just going to be slow going. I can't thank you enough for your patience and continued support!

The night of Chris’s premiere, Zach just about hits rock bottom.

He doesn’t want to sit in his apartment and refresh entertainment news sites, waiting for pictures and reviews—or worse, refresh the gossip sites, waiting for speculation about Chris and his arm candy. He doesn’t want to do any of the things he should be doing either—cleaning his apartment (which he’s neglected to the point of embarrassment), or cooking dinner, or getting out of bed at all.

But he makes himself do that last one. He even takes a shower, shaves, puts on nice clothes. He tips food into Noah’s bowl and gives him some extra ear scratches, and then, before he can talk himself out of it, he steps out his front door, locks it behind him, and heads out into the night.

_What’s the name of that gay bar?_ he texts Patrick. _The one Mark was talking about this morning._

They’d all worked out together earlier that day, yoga mats spread on the kitchen tile at the Grimy—Zach, Chris, Patrick, and the aforementioned Mark, a longtime friend of Chris’s who acts as their unofficial personal trainer. Zach wanted to beg off, but Chris was persuasive, citing his nerves about the premiere and his need for a distraction. It always makes Zach feel inadequate to watch the other guys, to see their well-defined muscles move in well-defined ways. He feels like a newborn giraffe next to the rest of them, all flailing limbs. But existing in Hollywood requires a certain amount of gym time, and being a good friend requires a certain amount of sacrifice, so he swallowed his protests and agreed.

Afterward, they sat around mopping sweat off their faces and chit-chatting, procrastinating going about the rest of their daily business, and that was when Mark brought up the bar he’d gone to with Chris a couple nights before. With _Chris_. Zach only barely kept his shock and hurt off his face. Why would Chris go to a place like that without him? Why would Chris go to a place like that at _all_? He’d given Zach the impression that he wasn’t looking for anyone else to bed, but maybe he’d changed his stance on that and neglected to tell him. Which would technically be his right, no matter how it twists Zach’s gut. Because they aren’t dating. They aren’t boyfriends. They’re friends who sometimes sleep together, and for all Zach knows, Chris still thinks he’s doing Zach some kind of favor, so maybe he needs a break every now and then, a chance to fuck someone without all that baggage.

Well, maybe Zach needs a break too, which is why he needs the name of that bar.

Patrick texts it to him, but he adds, _You need a wingman?_ Zach knows that to mean, _You need a babysitter?_ so he slips his phone back into his pocket without answering. Patrick should be cheering him on, anyway. Zach hasn’t forgotten the warning he gave him, cautioning him that Chris resists being tied down. This is Zach making an effort not to tie him down. If he’s out there parading Sorel in front of the cameras, he’s not going to care if Zach warms someone else’s sheets tonight.

And anyway, Zach has wild oats to sow. Chris has given him a definite confidence in his sexual prowess, so he doesn’t have that excuse to fall back on any longer. And though Dr. Shore’s voice rings in his head, telling him there’s no right or wrong way to take control of his sex life, he can’t help but feel like maybe he wouldn’t be pining for Chris if he put himself out there more, let someone else make him feel good—make them feel good too—so he can get it through his skull that it isn’t some kind of magic with Chris. 

Clad in this logic, he strides into the bar with his head held high…

…And walks out one hour later, defeated.

It isn’t that he struck out. Striking out would almost have been more bearable. Within moments of sidling up to the bar, a beefy blond guy appeared next to him and offered to buy him a drink. Zach smiled tightly and shook his head, and the guy had shrugged and turned away to look for new prey. Not my type, Zach thought. Too many muscles. But he couldn’t use the same excuse for the slender redhead, or the younger guy in short shorts who actually reminded him a little of Chris around the eyes. Yet Zach found himself turning them all down, tucking himself into a corner booth alone and scanning the dance floor like he was waiting for the heavens to open up and tell him, this one, this is the one you want.

He did accept one request for a dance from a curly-haired man who looked vaguely familiar—knowing this town, he’d probably done a few commercials or some modeling or…maybe porn—but as soon as they got out on the floor and the man put his hands on Zach’s waist, Zach was nearly overwhelmed by the wrongness of it. He made himself stick it out for one song, but by the end his skin was crawling and his face was burning and he had to excuse himself and run to the bathroom just to get away. 

_Stupid_ , he thinks on his walk home. Ridiculous. Even before Chris, he wasn’t such a prude that he couldn’t even _dance_ with a guy. This thing with Chris is supposed to have made him braver, more confident in himself and his sexuality. Maybe…maybe he’s just broken in some irreparable way, and he’ll never have a normal life, never be able to go to a bar and hit it off with an attractive person and go home with them without a million doubts running through his head. _Is this what I want? Is this worth it? Will I be laying awake tonight sick with regret?_

He’s so wrapped up in his own misery that he doesn’t notice that Chris is sitting outside his door until he almost trips over him. “Shit,” he says, putting out a hand to steady himself on Chris’s shoulder. Then, “Chris? What—?”

Chris must have come straight from the premiere, or maybe the party afterward. He’s still wearing his suit, the tie tugged loose and his shirt rumpled. He looks exhausted; even his smile is tired when he looks up and puts out a hand so Zach can pull him to his feet. 

“I was gonna call you,” Chris says, “but…I thought if you were out, you wouldn't answer anyway.”

Zach shakes his head. None of this makes sense—not the words Chris just said and not the fact that he’s here at all. “So you were just going to sit here indefinitely?”

“I figured I’d give it until midnight.” He looks at his watch, then looks up and down the hall, as if to make sure they are alone. His expression is pained and he won’t quite meet Zach’s eyes. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Zach’s apartment. “Can we…?”

Zach ducks around him to unlock the door, his head still buzzing with confusion. Something is off, something beyond the fact that Chris has showed up at his door at this late hour, without warning. When he turns on the light in the kitchen and turns to look at Chris again, he sees the sweat shining on the back of his neck, the flush in his cheeks. Either he walked here from his own place, or he’s nervous, or both. 

"Umm," Zach says, trying to decide what he should say. He’s exhausted too, he realizes all of a sudden. All he wanted to do was come home and crawl back into bed. He fights the urge to screw his knuckles into his eyes like a child and crosses his arms over his chest instead, tucking his hands into his armpits. 

"How was it?" he asks at last.

Chris looks at him then, and Zach notices for the first time that his eyes are red. Like he's...like he...shit, he's _crying_. As Zach watches, a tear spills out of Chris’s eye and down his cheek, then disappears somewhere in the shadow cast by his jaw. Heart clenching, Zach takes a step forward, putting a hand out to him, and that's all it takes for Chris to fall into his arms, burying his face in Zach's neck.

"Chris," Zach says, rubbing a hand up and down Chris's back, bewildered. His own misery and exhaustion dissipates in an instant, replaced by a need to make this better, whatever it is. “What happened? Was the premiere—”

“No, the premiere was fine.” Chris’s voice is muffled in Zach’s shoulder, but even so, it’s an obvious lie. He seems to realize this, because he sighs and tries again. “I mean, everyone was very nice, but…”

“Sorel?” Zach asks, tentatively. 

With a hoarse laugh, Chris backs up just enough to look him in the eye. “Really, Zach?”

“Really what?” Zach wrinkles his nose, wishing he could turn away. But Chris is too close and holding his eye—still holding onto him physically too, his fingers wrapped around Zach’s biceps. 

“Where were you anyway?” Chris asks, then swipes the back of one hand across his face, sniffling.

“Out.” When Chris lifts an eyebrow, Zach sighs, gives in. “I went to that bar you and Mark were talking about.”

“Ah.”

A shadow passes across Chris’s face, but Zach has no idea where it came from. This moment—this whole conversation—is starting to seem interminable. He wants to comfort Chris, but he can’t do that without knowing what’s wrong, and he gets the impression from Chris’s incredulity that he should _already_ know. As for his own escapades tonight, he doesn’t want to talk about those at all.

Slowly, cautiously, he reaches up to cup Chris’s face in one palm and swipe the moisture off his cheek. To his relief, Chris closes his eyes and leans into the touch, covering Zach’s hand with his own. 

"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?" he asks without opening his eyes. "I can take the couch or something—"

"Don't be ridiculous." 

Zach takes him by the hand and leads him down the hall, back to his darkened bedroom. Chris stands there looking helpless while Zach rifles through his drawers for a t-shirt and sweats that will fit him. When he finds them, he places them in Chris's hand and gives him a little shove toward the bathroom. "Go rinse off, if you want."

Chris gives him a grateful smile and heads off to get cleaned up. Unsure what else to do, Zach peels off his clothes, moving as if through molasses, then crawls into bed. The sound of the shower threatens to lull him to sleep—his eyelids are heavy, his mind so overwhelmed it’s gone entirely blank—but he needs to stay awake long enough to figure out what’s bothering Chris and why he showed up _here_ , of all places. Zach was fully prepared not to talk to him for a few days, until he’d show up at the Grimy later in the week and regale them all with tales of his success, the fans fawning, the reporters schmoozing. Never mind that Chris isn’t really one to brag like that. Never mind that he never seems to care about such trivial things. Zach’s imagination inevitably goes to the worst possible places. 

It seems like an eternity later that Chris crawls into bed with him, warm and damp from his shower, brushing his fingers against Zach's arm as if to reassure himself he is really there and solid.

"Why did you come here?" Zach whispers in the direction of the ceiling. He’s afraid to look at Chris so close in the dark, in bed. They never lay together like this unless they’ve just had sex or are about to. This is a level of intimacy Zach doesn’t know how to guard against. 

Chris sighs and tugs at him. "Come here," he says, and waits until Zach reluctantly rolls onto his side. "Is it so weird to you that I thought you'd understand? I couldn't think of anyone who'd get it more than you would."

Zach shakes his head minutely. "Get what?"

There’s that shadow again, darkening Chris’s features. This time, Zach recognizes it as doubt. “Get that none of this is easy for me,” Chris says. “And that I don’t…I don’t want to parade around in front of the cameras with some girl on my arm just for show. I…” He stares steadily at Zach, his eyes shining in the dark. “I thought you knew.”

Zach's stomach is tying itself in knots. That’s disappointment he hears in Chris’s voice, and it makes him want to pull the covers up over his head and hide. “What?” he says. “I don’t—”

Chris chews on his lip like he's trying to decide something, then he flops back over onto his back and blows out a long breath, his eyes trained on the ceiling. "I had an awful childhood, you know," he says, seemingly apropos of nothing. "My family was great and supportive, sure, but my peers were fucking ruthless. I had awful acne through middle school and high school, and girls wouldn't give me the time of day. And when I figured out I was into guys, they wouldn't give me the time of day either. I always felt like I was an outsider, like I was flawed in some fundamental, unchangeable way that everyone could see." He rubs a hand over his face, screws a knuckle into the corner of his eye. "It wasn't until I got to college and got involved in theater that I started feeling like I was worth something. Acting is the first thing I remember thinking I was any good at, and people _told_ me I was good at it, and that was the best feeling in the world."

Now it's Zach's turn to reach for Chris, to take his hand and squeeze it. He gets what Chris is saying. Acting saved him when he thought he had nothing else. He just never considered that Chris would have had the same experience. Chris, who seems to have everything in the world going for him, who seems like he could do anything he puts his mind to.

"I've been chasing that feeling ever since," Chris continues. "I love acting, but I'm also in the business because I'm addicted to people telling me that they like me. And I really _feel_ like an addict. I’ll do all kinds of shit I don’t want to do just to get that high.”

Zach relates, he really does, but he still feels like he’s a half-step behind. What does this have to do with why Chris is here? And what happened at the premiere to set him off? “I understand what you’re saying, Chris, but…” He trails off, hoping Chris will pick up on the confusion in his silence. 

“Zach.” Chris sounds frustrated now, and he rolls back toward Zach and props himself up on his elbow, forcing Zach to look up at him. “You know I—I’m not sleeping with anyone else right now, right? I told you that.”

“Yeah, but.” Zach shakes his head. Trying to make sense of all this is like trying to read hieroglyphics. “Because it’s too much work, you said. And apparently you’ve been going to gay bars, so…”

“I went out _one_ time with Mark, and we had a couple drinks and then went home.” Chris reaches out and puts a hand on Zach’s chest, like he can get him on the same page if he just touches him. “And it’s too much work because no one else fucking _gets it_. Everyone thinks, ‘Oh, cool, you were in a movie with Lindsay Lohan!’ Or they get dollar signs in their eyes the moment I start talking. Or they think it’s all so glamorous—the red carpets and the cameras and the publicists choreographing your every move. But it isn’t glamorous. It fucking _sucks_ , especially when so much of it is based on a lie, and I just…” He stares at Zach for a beat, like he’s waiting for him to finally put it together, but Zach can only gape at him until he groans and lets his arm collapse out from under him, burying his face in Zach’s neck. “You’re killing me, here.”

Zach wraps Chris up in his arms instinctively, his heart leaping into his throat at the sudden and guileless display of affection. He wants to pull Chris’s face to his and kiss him, but he wants to hear the rest of what Chris has to say more than that, so he bites his bottom lip and waits it out.

“I feel comfortable with you,” Chris says at last, the words a gust of warm air on Zach’s skin. “I can be myself with you. That means a lot to me. More than...more than anything.”

It should make Zach feel incredible to hear those words from Chris’s mouth, but somehow all he feels is fear, swift and sharp and paralyzing. This isn’t right. Chris must be confused. Zach doesn’t deserve this—not Chris’s trust, not Chris wrapped around him in bed, and definitely not a real relationship with him. That’s what Chris is trying to say, isn’t it? With these speeches? He wants more, he _feels_ more, and even though Zach has spent the last several months wishing for more too, now that it’s here he knows he can’t do it. He’ll fuck it up. He’s probably already fucked it up, just Chris doesn’t realize it yet.

“Chris,” he says, his throat so constricted he’s surprised he can get the words out at all, “all we…all we do is fuck.”

The silence that follows seems to last an eternity, long enough for Zach to regret his words a thousand times over. Chris has gone stiff and still, other than the hot breath on Zach’s neck which is coming faster now. In fact, Chris feels hot all over, his forehead scorching where it’s pressed to Zach’s skin, his hand clammy on Zach’s chest. Slowly, painfully slowly, he peels himself away from Zach, and it’s almost a relief to feel the cooler air rush into the growing space between them. 

“What?” Chris croaks. Zach doesn’t want to look at him, but he forces himself to anyway. The hurt he sees in Chris’s expression is like a punch to the gut.

“Chris, I—”

“All we do is fuck?” Chris says, his voice rising with incredulity. “That’s all we’re doing?”

“That’s all I thought we were doing!” Zach snaps. Lashing out feels like the only safe path here, the only thing that might keep Chris at arm’s length.

For a moment, Zach thinks Chris is going to start crying again, but mercifully he lets out a harsh bark of a laugh instead. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?” he says. Yeah, Zach would have to agree with him there. “These past few months have been hell, and spending time with you…” Chris shakes his head, passes a hand over his eyes in a way that makes it seem like he may be holding back tears after all. “You’re the only thing that’s been going right in my life, and you’re seriously trying to tell me all of that was in my head?”

Zach has completely lost the fucking plot. Unsure what to do with himself, he sits up and then scrambles to his feet, wishing they were in Chris’s apartment so he could gather up his things and run away. Instead, he reaches over and turns on the lamp on his nightstand—then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Now he can see how red Chris’s eyes are, the flush of anger and embarrassment that extends from his face all the way down to his chest. 

The most disturbing thing is how Chris managed to perfectly echo how Zach has been feeling. His career is in the toilet, with no sign that it’s going to turn around any time soon, and sometimes the only thing motivating him to get out of bed in the morning is a chance to see Chris, to see his smile, to watch him act his heart out, and—yeah—to kiss him, to touch him, to go to bed with him. But he never in a million years would have dreamed that Chris would be having the same experience. Yes, he knows Chris has been dissatisfied with his career too, perpetually worried he’ll never get to do the movies he wants to do, serious movies that acknowledge he’s more than just a pretty face. And he knows that Chris hates the press and should have guessed that tonight would be hard for him. But Zach could never have guessed that _he_ was the balm for all these various miseries. It makes sense for Chris to be that person for him. Not just because of the sex either, but the late nights in bed watching _I Love Lucy_ reruns, or the early mornings at Intelligentsia, conversations so engrossing Zach forgets about his last failed audition and his empty email inbox. Chris is intelligent, funny, empathetic, generous, beautiful, talented. What does Zach have to offer? What can Chris possibly see in him, the guy who had barely any sexual experience before he met him? The guy who revealed how much of a pathetic mess he is within weeks of meeting him?

Chris must not really know what he feels, because what he feels makes no _sense_.

“All I know is that this wasn’t the deal, Chris,” Zach says.

“What deal?” He clambers out of bed too, and it breaks Zach heart to see him standing there on the other side of such an insurmountable gulf. Wearing Zach’s clothes, no less, the sweatpants barely clinging to his slim hips.

“I thought you were just helping me out,” Zach says, hating the reedy note of desperation in his voice. “I thought you were just being nice!”

Chris lets out a derisive snort. “You must not think very highly of me then. You’re not a fucking project, Zach. You’re a person, and you deserve—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Zach snaps. “Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me right now.”

“Yeah, well, someone fucking should.” 

With that, Chris turns away and rips his t-shirt—Zach’s t-shirt—off over his head, then marches off into the bathroom to retrieve his own clothes. When he comes back, he’s shrugging into his button-down, his suit jacket and pants balled up in one hand. Zach wants to tell him to stop, keep the clothes, just come back to bed and forget all about this and they can go on like they were. But it’s too late now. This isn’t a conversation they can ignore or undo. 

“You know,” Chris says, sounding more tired than mad now, “the worst part is, I thought we were friends.” Zach starts to protest, but Chris plows right over him. “It’s one thing for you to not be interested in me romantically. That’s fine. I get that. You’re not a dick for not having feelings. But to act like I’m the asshole for coming to you for support tonight…” He shakes his head, swallows hard. “Well, I guess at least now I know where I stand.”

“Chris. No. Wait.”

There must be some magic combination of words that will make this right. If Zach just had a few more minutes, he might be able to come up with them. But Chris is already wrenching open the bedroom door, brushing past Noah who’s camped outside with his head on his paws. Zach follows him into the front hall and watches as he steps into his shoes. He feels like he’s looking at him through plate glass, like he’s already too far away to reach. How Zach managed to fuck this up so badly, he doesn’t even know. The last several minutes are a complete blur. 

“Chris,” he says again, desperately.

The worst part—the absolute _worst_ part—is when Chris looks back at him and says, wearily, “I’m gonna need a few days.”

Anyone else would have said, _Lose my number_ , or, _I never want to see your fucking face again_ , but Chris is too good for that. No, he will take a few days to himself, straighten up his spine, and show up at the Grimy with a smile. He may never treat Zach the same way, things may always be a little icy between them, but he won’t shun him. He won’t give him the cold shoulder. It’s more than Zach deserves, and it’s what finally causes the tears to well up in Zach’s eyes, his stomach churning so hard he thinks he might be sick.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. But Chris is already gone.


End file.
